J LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. J 



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THE 



PASTOR'S DAUGHTER: 




WAY OF SALVATION 



EXPLAINED TO A YOUNG INQUIRER. 



REMINISCENCES OF THE CONVERSATIONS OF 
HER LATE FATHER, 






<f. . W 



DOCTOR PAYSON. 
BY LOUISA PAYSON HOPKINS. 



NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

No. S>85 BROADWAY 







* • . /JV^i 






tV 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850. 

BY ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York 



The Library 

OF CoNORggg 



• 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

It may be necessary to state that this little book is not a 
fictitious narrative. It is, substantially, a record of conversa- 
tions and incidents, which really occurred ; though it is not 
pretended that the precise words of the dialogue, or the very 
circumstances of the narrative are always preserved. This, 
in a record penned several years after the events it narrates, is 
evidently impossible. It is sufficient to its essential truth 
that similar incidents and conversations occurred, and tha' the 
general progress and result are correctly described. 

L. P. H. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. — Introduction. Reasons for supposing that Maria's 
history may do good. Her early interest in Religion. How can 
I have a good heart ? How ministers are made. Disobedience. 
The Peach. Why did the angels sin ? The way to find out 
pride. The way to cure pride. Design of the book. ... 13 

CHAPTER II.— What if I was a fairy ? Money will not make 
people happy. Desires increase as fast as they are gratified. 
We do not learn from the experience of others. No perfect 
happiness in this world. Why some people are happier than 
others. Fable. The exchange of calamities 25 

CHAPTER III.— Story of the three little trouts. It is better to 
confide in God, than to choose for ourselves. Another story. 
Visit to the country. Peace and Inexperience. Fancy and 
Reality. Books do not always tell the truth. . ; 33 

CHAPTER IV.— What does heart mean? Don't know how to 
love God. Can we love a person whom we have never seen ? 
Why we should love God. Obedience the proof of love. . 38 

CHAPTER V.— Difficulty ofbeing good. Christ on earth. If we 
had lived then, how should we have treated him ? New resolu- 
tions. Impressions easily effaced 41 

CHAPTER VI.— Effort to do good. Trial and failure. Subse- 
quent reflections. Another trial. A slight victory and a total 
defeat. Results. Advantages, even of unsuccessful efforts. 45 

CHAPTER VII. — Conviction of sin necessary to a new heart. 
The heart not to be trusted. Selfish love. How it differs from 
true love. Loving a false Deity. God is love 52 

CHAPTER VIII.— New views of the character of God. Maria 
is guilty of another fault. Nobody can be good without God's 
help. Pride. Another resolution. ...::::::::: 56 

CHAPTER IX. — Waking in the morning. Castles in the air. 



VI CONTENTS. 

Work done wrong. Discontent. The orange. Reflections 
Writing books *. .- • 60 

CHAPTER X. — Disappointments. Their causes. Fancied ex- 
cuses. Conscience and the ring. The hermit. Maria's plan. 
Three objections to it 64 

CHAPTER XI. — Acknowledgment of dependance. Prayer and 
its result. . Disappointment accounted for. One prayer will 
not do. Prayer without exertion will not do. New effort. 68 

CHAPTER XII. — Something else about prayer. Illustration of 
the beggar. God not obliged to answer prayer. Is displeased 
at selfish prayers. Sinners' prayers insincere. Incident. 72 

CHAPTER XIII.— I did not make my heart. A wicked heart no 
excuse. Illustration. The murderer. Consistent reasoning. 
The heart wrong. Argument useless in such a case. . . 76 

CHAPTER XIV.— Self-deception. The peasant girl. Filial 
piety. Easy to do right in other circumstances. Every one can 
do some good. Dorothea. Foolish wishes. Nero. Power injuri- 
ous. A Fable. Change of situation does not change the heart. 80 

CHAPTER XV.— A verse in the Bible. The slips of paper. The 
doll's dress. Trials. The victory. The defeat. Quarrel 
with William. . 88 

CHAPTER XVI.— Books. Their effect upor Maria. " The 
black velvet Bracelet." What can be the reason? Test of 
good temper. 92 

CHAPTER XVII.— The Infant's Progress. Love is voluntary. 
Illustration. No control over our affections. Not an excuse. 
Another objection 96 

CHAPTER XVIII.— The objection answered. The king of Eng- 
land. The traitor pardoned. Why do Christians love God? 
Supposition. Duty 100 

CHAPTER XIX.— Maria's illness. Returning health. Impa- 
tience. Anecdote. Christian feelings. Supposition. God's 
power. Objections. Cause of infidelity. Difference between 
selfishness and self-love. The Archangel. Why God shows 
favor to man 104 

CHAPTER XX. — Repentance more difficult in time of danger. 
Conversions few on the death-bed. Fear alone the cause of 
death-bed convictions. Pharaoh's hardness of heart. The 
Israelites. The plague in Athens. Dangers will not change 
the heart 112 



CONTENTS. VI" 

CHAPTER XXI.— The heathen gods. The character of a peo- 
ple determined by that of their gods. God's character misap- 
prehended. A man's character known by his conduct. How 
God regards us. His unchangeableness. Man is governed 
by impulse. How one can know his own character by that of 
his God. Salvation impossible without repentance. The Chris- 
tian. The merciful law-giver. God's infinite love and mercy. 117 

CHAPTER XXII.— Cannot tell what to do. What is repent- 
ance? What is faith? The friendly advocate. Petulance 
and its reproof. 127 

CHAPTER XXIII.— Inability. The force of habit. An old 
objection. Two sighs. Thoughts about the way of salvation* 
The proud can never be saved 131 

CHAPTER XXIV.— Self-righteous efforts. Different feelings. 
Anecdote. How to be loved. The two heaps. A good reso- 
lution. Its result. Way to do good? 135 

CHAPTER XXV.— The false friend. One cause of Christ's 
sufferings. Did Christ feel, as a man, the perfidy of his sup- 
posed friends ? Sincere forgiveness. Christ's example. Why 
are not all sinners pardoned. Illustration 141 

CHAPTER XXVI. — What qualifications are necessary for true 
friendship. The paint-box. Maria's disappointment. The 
right kind of friend described. Where to find such a friend. 
Christ's character 148 

CHAPTER XXVII.— The spilt milk. False pride. Example. 
Sad effect of pride. Supposition. Ingratitude 154 

CHAPTER XXVIII.— About resolutions. Wliy they are bro- 
ken. Selfishness. Remorse. Sin pleasant in the commission. 
Conscience may be silenced. The danger of doing so. . . 160 

CHAPTER XXIX.— A work which must be done. It grows 
harder every day. Madness of deferring it. Excuse. Folly 
of sinners. Sad reflection 164 

CHAPTER XXX.— Has God a right to control our feelings? If 
not, men might as well have been machines. Earthly rulers. 
Motives give character to actions. Illustration. Aunt's visit. 
Which is the right motive? 168 

CHAPTER XXXL— Self-complacency. Different frames. Ex- 
cuses. Ill-humor. Another instance. Self-conceit and its 
reproof. 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXII.— Text explained. No justification by the 
law. Illustration. The punishment of the sinner just. 'Maria's 
feelings about it 176 

CHAPTER XXXIII.— How did Christ atono for sin? Use of 
punishment. Qualifications of a mediator. Love of Christ. 
Why repentance is necessary. Offers of mercy unconditional 180 

CHAPTER XXXIV.— The prayer of the wicked of no avail. 
An old objection. Answered again. Moral and natural inabi- 
lity. Sinner in God's hands. " I wish I never had been born." 
Maria's distress. Effect on her temper 184 

CHAPTER XXXV.— Tears and distress. Why all Christians 
are not happy. Wishes to be a Christian. Why not granted. 
" O, if I could." Incident of childhood 190 

CHAPTER XXXVI.— Would a wicked man be happy in heav- 
en? Why not? Happiness dependant on character. Sin 
would make a soul miserable in heaven. Holiness would make 
it happy anywhere 194 

CHAPTER XXXVII.— The heart cannot be trusted. Ways 
in which it deceives. New evidence of its treachery. The 
only Refuge 199 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.— The revival. New cases of conversion: 
Maria's pleasure. " I don't see why I am so glad to have peo- 
ple converted, if I am not a Christian." The difficulty explained. 
True desires for holiness. Mistaken motives 205 

CHAPTER XXXIX.— The Jews. Excuses of the unregene- 
rate heart. They condemn God. Illustration. The true lan- 
guage of the heart. God or the sinner must be in the wrong. 
Inability to obey God. Becoming an infidel 210 

CHAPTER XL.— The sovereignty of God. Objections. Para- 
ble of the householder. Necessity of submission. But one al- 
ternative 215 

CHAPTER XLL— New troubles. Finding fault with God. Free- 
dom of man. We believe many things which cannot be proved. 
Illustrations 218 

CHAPTER XLII.— New discoveries. What have they to do 
with the subject? Supposition. Then what must I do? The 
rose-bud. Foolish reasoning. More illustrations 223 

CONCLUSION.— The sermon. The written resolution. Its re- 
sults. Rise and progress. Changes. Despondency! The 
Inquiry Meeting. Submission. Love and peace. The end. 230 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 



CHAPTER I. 



" I am far from thinking that the Spirit of God does not manifest itself in 
thildren, in a very striking manner, and at a very early age." 

Maria was the daughter of a clergyman, who 
resided in a pleasant town in America. Of his 
character I will only say that earth has rarely 
witnessed a more lovely exemplification of the 
principles of the Christian religion. 

My reasons for supposing that an account of the 
various states of mind through which Maria pass- 
ed, preparatory to her becoming a disciple of 
Christ, may benefit other young persons, are seve- 
ral. The feelings which she expressed in con- 
versation with her father, and the^ objections which 
she brought forward, are, doubtless, substantially 
the same which are felt and urged by all who 
reflect upon the subject of religion, for any con- 
siderable time, before they yield their hearts to its 
influence. To such, it may be of service to find 
their objections answered, their excuses shown to 
be groundless, the artifices of their hearts exposed, 
2 



14 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

and the motives to repentance and submission 
urged upon them. Those who have never reflect- 
ed upon the subject may be led to do so, by reading 
of the interest which she felt, and the result of 
this interest. 

If it should be thought that the observations at- 
tributed to Maria indicate more maturity of mind, 
and greater command of language, than could be 
expected in a child at her age, it should be remem- 
bered that she was the eldest Ghild of the family, 
and as such received a large share of attention from 
both her parents : that her father, in particular, de- 
voted much time to her instruction, and that she 
united to an inquiring and eager mind, a great love 
of reading, all which circumstances conspired to 
hasten the development of her powers. 

Maria's interest in the subject of religion com- 
menced at a very early age. I do not know, nor 
does any one, how early. When she was between 
two and three years old, she would sit on a little 
stool, at her father's feet, with the tears rolling down 
her cheeks, while he talked to her of the sinfulness 
of her heart, and the impossibility of her ever 
being happy till it was changed. The following 
incident occurred when she was about a year and 
a half old. She had been sick for some time, and 
had been rocked to sleep in the cradle; but was 
now so far recovered that her mother thought it 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 15 

proper for her to sleep up stairs. Anticipating some 
objection to this measure on the part of the child, 
she began to talk to her as she lay in the cradle, 
about being good, telling her that this was the only 
way to be happy, &c. Maria suddenly asked, in 
the quick way in which she commonly spoke, " Ma, 
how can I be good ?" 

Her mother told her she must nave a new heart. 

" How can I have a good heart ? I will take out 
my naughty heart," said she, untying her frock, 
"and stamp on it, and beat it — will that make it 
good?" 

Her father, coming in at this moment, heard the 
question. 

" No, my daughter," said he, " you cannot make 
your heart good." 

" You, then, pa. Didn't pa make his new heart ? 
didn't ma make hers ? didn't Phebe make hers ?" 

" No, nobody but God can make new hearts ; and 
if yon want one you must ask him." 

After some more conversation of this sort, her 
mother carried her up to bed. When she was 
about leaving her, she said, u Has my little daughter 
any thing to say to her mother ?" hoping Maria 
would ask her to pray ; bu*t, instead of this, she 
clasped her hands, and looking up to heaven with 
an expression of the greatest seriousness and ear- 
nestness, she said, 



16 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Please, great Papa up in heaven, take away the 
naughty out of my bosom." 

For two or three months after this there was so 
remarkable a change in Maria's disposition, she 
was so much more gentle and yielding, that her 
parents almost began to hope that the infantile pe- 
tition had been heard. 

Maria was of a very inquisitive temper, and this 
disposition was never checked by a refusal on the 
part of her parents to answer her inquiries, though 
she uttered them with a rapidity and eagerness 
which hardly allowed time for reply. One Sabbath, 
her father, feeling unable to preach from illness, her 
mother was lamenting the necessity he was under 
of going into the pulpit, when Maria said quickly, 

" Why doesn't uncle preach ?" 

" Because he is not a minister," said her mother ; 
"nobody can preach but ministers." 

" What is a minister % How came there to be any 
ministers ?" 

Her father explained to her, that other ministers 
ordained them, or set them apart, by laying on of 
hands and prayer. 

" They couldn't make the first minister so, I 
know. Who made the first one?" 

Her father then related to her the account of the 
sending forth of the apostles, and the conversion 
and ministry of Saul of Tarsus. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 17 

"What, that wicked Saul, that wanted to kill 
David ? I thought he was a wicked man when 
he died." 

"No, not that Saul, but another." 

" Well, why didn't God make that Saul a good 
man? Why don't he make every body good?" 

When Maria was nearly three years old, she 
refused to say, Please, mother, on one occasion 
when she had been directed to do so. Her mother 
reasoned with her for some time, but finding it in- 
effectual, she directed Maria to go into the closet. 
There she remained for half an hour, without 
giving any signs of a willingness to obey. Her 
mother said to the domestic, loud enough for 
Maria to hear, " You may cover up the fire, 
Nancy, it is time to go to bed." The little girl 
thought she was to spend the night in the closet. 
" O, dear!" said she, in a piteous tone, "I wish I 
could say, Please, mother." 

Just then her father came in, and heard how 
matters stood. He took Maria from the closet, 
put on her cloak and bonnet, opened the street 
door, and led her out on the steps. " There," said 
he, "Maria may go away; we don't want any 
little girls here who won't mind their mothers." 
The child stood for a moment confounded ; then 
burst into tears, and sobbed out, "Please, mother !" 

A few months afterward, she received a lesson 
2* 



iC THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

which might have cured her of believing herself 
wiser than any body else. Her mother was pick- 
ling some peaches, and had just taken them from 
the salt and water with which they had become 
tnoroughly impregnated, when Maria came into the 
kitchen, and asked for one. She had eaten ripe 
peaches, in their natural state, and supposed these 
to be of the same kind. In va:n was she assured 
that they were not good to eat, that they were both 
bitter and salt; in short, worse than any medicine 
she had ever tasted : Maria knew they were good, 
and knew she should like them. Finally, her 
mother told her she might have one on condition 
that she should eat the whole, which she gladly 
promised to do. But no sooner had she taken a 
mouthful, than it was rejected with the greatest 
disgust. " I never tasted any thing so ugly in my 
life; mayn't I have something to take the taste out 
of my mouth ?" 

" No, my dear, you must eat it all ; you know 
that was the condition on which I gave it to you." 

Maria began to cry. " O, mamma, you won't 
make me eat that nasty thing ?" 

"Yes, Maria, you must abide by your own 
choice : you see now that you had better have be- 
lieved me." 

Maria was sure she never could get it down, 
are it would make het sick, it would kill her ■ 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 19 

but her mother was firm. At length, with the 
help of a piece of bread which her mother allow- 
ed her, and with tears and sighs, the nauseous 
morsel was fairly swallowed; but Maria did not 
soon forget the lesson it had taught her. 

Another time she came sobbing to her father, 
and told him she was afraid heaven was not so 
happy a place as it was supposed to be. 

" Why, my dear, what makes you think so ?" 

" Because, papa, if it is, what made the angels 
sin? They were happy, and they knew they 
were happy, didn't they, papa? Then why should 
they sin?" 

As she grew up, she proposed, at different times, 
all the objections which have been urged by cavil- 
lers and objectors against religion ; thus proving, 
as her father observed, that they have their origin 
in the heart, not in the head. 

Maria had been taught to repeat Miss Taylor's 
Hymn, beginning, " Pride, ugly pride," and its 
meaning had been explained to her. One morn- 
ing, before she was up, her father was disturbed by 
strange sounds, which seemed to proceed from the 
adjoining room, where Maria and her lit le brother 
slept. On going to ascertain the cause, he found 
her, and the little boy, at her instigation, with two 
sticks, employed in beating the pillows with great 
vehemence and indignation. He inquired what 



20 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

offence they had committed ; and was gravely in- 
formed by Maria that they were " making believe" 
the pillows were pride, and so they meant to give 
them a good beating. Maria seemed to feel that 
she had achieved quite a conquest in this way; but 
her parents inclined to the opinion that the chas- 
tisement inflicted on the pillows had tended more 
to their detriment, than to the increase of humility 
in the children. As the hymns are very good, 
and not very often to be met with, I will insert 
them. 

THE WAY TO FIND OUT PRIDE. 

"Pride, ugly pride, sometimes is seen, 
In haughty looks and lofty mien ; 
But oft'ner it is found that pride 
Loves deep within the heart to hide: 
And while the looks are mild and fair, 
It sits and does its mischief there. 
Now if you really wish to find 
If pride be lurking in your mind, 
Inquire if you can bear a slight, 
Or patiently give up your right. 
Can you submissively consent 
To take reproof and punishment, 
And feel no angry passions start, 
In any corner of your heart ? 
Can you with frankness own a crime, 
And promise for another time 1 
Or say you've been in a mistake, 
Nor try some poor excuse to make, 
But freely own that it was wrong 
To argue for your side so long ? 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 21 

Flat contradiction can you bear, 

When you are right, and know you are? 

Nor flatly contradict again, 

But wait, and modestly explain, 

A.nd tell your reasons one by one, 

Nor think of triumph when you've done! 

Can you, in business or in play, 

Give up your wishes, or your way? 

Or do a thing against your will, 

For some one who is younger still, 

And never try to overbear, 

Or say a word that is not fair? 

Does laughing at you in a joke, 

No anger nor revenge provoke : 

But can you laugh yourself, and be 

As merry as the company ? 

Or when you find that you could do 

By them as they have done by you, 

Can you keep down the wicked thought, 

And do exactly as you ought ? 

Put all these questions to your heart, 

And make it act an honest part ; 

And when they've each been fairly tried 

I think you'll own that you have pride; 

Some one will suit you as you go, 

And force your heart to tell you so ; 

But if the whole should be denied, 

Then you're too proud to own your pride. * 

THE WAY TO CURE PRIDE. 

"Now I suppose that having tried, 

And found the secret of your pride, • 

You wish to drive it from your heart, 

And learn to act a humbler part. 

Well, are you sorry and sincere ?- 

I'll try to help you then, my dear. 



22 THE PASTOR S DAUGHTER. 

And first, the best and surest way, 
Is to kneel down at once and pray. 
The lowly Savior will attend, 
And strengthen you, and be your friencL 
Tell him the mischief that you find 
For ever working in your mind, 
And beg his pardon for the past, 
And strength to overcome at last. 
But then you must not go your way, 
And think it quite enough to pray ; 
This is but doing half your task, 
For you must watch as well as ask. 
You pray for strength, and that is right, 
But then it must be strength to fight ; 
For where's the use of being strong, 
Unless you conquer what is wrong % 
Then look within— ask every thought 
If it be humble as it ought. 
Put out the smallest spark of pride 
The very moment 'tis descried, 
And do not stay to think it o'er, 
For while you wait it blazes more. 
If it 1 should take you by surprise, 
And beg you just to let it rise, 
And promise not to keep you long, 
Say, ' No, the smallest pride is icrong.* 
And when there's something so amiss, 
That pride says, ' Take offence at this' 
Then if you feel at all inclined 
To brood upon it in your mind, 
And think revengeful thoughts within, 
And wish it were not wrong to sin — 
O stop at once ! for if you dare 
To wish for sin, that sin is there ! 
'Twill then be best to go and pray 
That God would take your pride away; 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 23 

Or if just then you cannot go, 

Pray in your heart, and God will know, 

And beg his mercy to impart 

The best of gifts — a kumble heart. 

Remember too that you must pray, 

And watch, and labor, every day ; 

Nor think it wearisome, or hard, 

To be for ever on your guard. 

No— every morning must begin 

With resolutions not to sin ; 

And every evening recollect 

How much you've failed in this respect 

Ask whether such a guilty heart 

Should act a proud or humble part ; 

Or, since the Savior was so mild, 

Inquire if pride becomes a child; 

And when all other means are tried, 

Be humble, that you've so much pride." 



It has been already mentioned, that before Maria 
was three years old, she was very unwilling to be 
convinced that she did not love God, and often 
wept because her father seemed to doubt this 
affection. She observed one day, that " she wished 
she could die, and then her father would see her 
fly right up to heaven like a little angel, and he 
would know she loved God." However, this 
wore off; and for a year previous to the com- 
mencement of our history, she manifested no par- 
ticular interest in the subject of religion, and had 
quite forgotten her former conversations relating 



24 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

to it. It will be seen that at this period, her im- 
pressions were revived. 

Our aim will not be to give a connected history 
of the progress of her mind, but merely to present 
conversations and incidents which occurred at 
intervals, after she had attained the age of four 
years. 



CHAPTER II. 

"Oct rery wishes give us not our wish." 

Little Maria sat on her cricket one day, look- 
ing very intently into the fire, but not as if she saw 
it. Her eyes were fixed, and there was a half 
smile on her countenance, as if her thoughts 
were pleasantly occupied. 

" Maria, what are you thinking about ?" said 
her father, at last. 

" O, papa," said the little girl, " I was thinking 
what if I was a fairy." 

" Well, and what if you were a fairy ?" said her 
father. 

" Why then how nice it would be, papa. If I 
wanted to go any where, I should only have to 
wish, and then I should be there — and if I wanted 
a beautiful house, or a garden, or books, or any 
thing in the world, I should only have to stamp 
on the ground, and it would come right up. And 
I've just thought of another thing, too ; I could do 
just what I liked all the time, and if ma wanted 
me to go up stairs for her, when I was reading, I 
could wish r and the things she wanted would 
come. O, how funny it would be," continued she, 
3 



26 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

bursting into a laugh, "to see the things come 
tumbling down stairs." 

Her father smiled, too. " This last is a very 
important consideration, to be sure," said he. 

" O, it would be so nice. Don't you wish I was 
a fairy, papa f\ 

" No, my dear." 

" You don't, papa ! — well, I don't see why — you 
know you could have every thing you wanted, too ; 
I would build you a fine house, a great deal better 
than this, and you should have as many books as 
you want to study, and horses and carriages to 
ride in, and every thing else. Now don't you 
wish so, papa?" 

" No, my dear." 

" How strange ! will you tell me why, papa ?" 

" One reason is, that I do not think all these fine 
things would make us any happier." 

" Not any happier, with every thing we wanted ! 
papa, you grow stranger and stranger." 

" I do not suppose T can make you understand 
this, but if you live a few years longer, you will 
learn that our happiness is very little affected by 
such things." 

" Why, papa, it seems to me that this is all 
which makes some people happier than others." 

" Then rich people are always happy, and poor 
ones always unhappy. Is it so?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 27 

" No, papa, I think — I am sure it rs not. You 
know that little girl that was burnt so dreadfully, 
and was very poor besides ; I am sure she seemed 
a great deal happier than Mr. C. does, with all his 
money." 

" These two cases, then, seem to be exceptions 
to your rule." 

44 O, papa, it will not do for a rule at all ; for 
now I think of a great many more just like them; 
so I give up, papa, about money's making people 
happy. And yet," resumed she, after a pause, "I 
can't help thinking it would make me happy — 
there are so many things I want." 

44 Will money buy every thing you want?" 

14 No, papa ; but if I was a fairy, you know I 
could have every thing, whether it could be 
bought or not — couldn't I?" 

44 As I am not so w r ell acquainted with the 
powers of fairies as you seem to be, I will not un- 
dertake to answer that question." 

44 O, papa, now you are laughing at me ; but I am 
not so foolish as to suppose there are such things 
as fairies — only if there were, and if I were one." 

44 Two very important ifs. Suppose you were 
trying to fill up a pit, and it grew larger just as 
fast as you poured into it — would it ever be full?" 

44 No, papa," said Maria, wondering at what 
she thought a very irrelevant question. 



28 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Well, my dear, to attempt to satisfy a person's 
desires is just like this ; for they increase as fast as 
they are gratified, and the person is just as far from 
being satisfied as he was at the beginning." 

" I don't see how that can be." 

" How is it in your own case, Maria ? you 
thought a month ago that you should be perfectly 
happy if you had as many books as your cousin 
Sarah ; your uncle made you a present of all Miss 
Edge worth's stories for children, and now I want 
to know if you were as happy as you expected to 
be?" 

" I was at first, papa." 

" I know that, my dear. I have not forgotten 
how you capered about, and shook the house in 
your joy ; but after a little while, were you per- 
fectly satisfied ?" 

" No, papa ; I remember I began to wish that I 
had books enough to fill my little red library. 
And papa, I do believe, now I think of it, that it is 
always so ; for when uncle gave me a quarter of a 
dollar last fourth of July, I began to want more, 
though before I did not think any thing about it. 
I thought if I had & whole dollar I should be satis- 
fied; but afterwards I had a dollar for having my 
tooth out, I was not any more satisfied." 

"Well, now you have only to put thousands of 
dollars in the place of one, and you will under* , 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 29 

stand how a rich man may be as dissatisfied with 
his condition as a poor one." 

44 Papa," resumed Maria, after a pause, " if I be- 
lieved you ever so much, I do not think it would 
keep me from wishing for such things ; I want to 
be a fairy as rnuch now as I did before." 

Her father smiled. " So I suppose, my dear ; the 
reason is, that we do not fully believe what others 
tell us, till we have learned it by experience." 

" What is experience, papa ?" 

" Look at your little brother : see how his mother 
is obliged to hold him back to prevent him from 
seizing the candle with his hands. Would you 
take hold of it if you ware told you might ?" 

" No, indeed, papa," said Maria, laughing. 

" Why wouldn't you ?" 

44 Because I should be burnt." 

" How do you know you would be ?" 

" How do I know ? why, I have always known 
it, I believe." 

44 No, indeed, my dear ; when you were at your 
brother's age, you would have put your hands into 
it if you had been permitted." 

44 1 suppose, then, you told me that it would burn." 

44 Yes, I did, but that alone was not enough ; you 

never believed me fully till I held your finger so 

near the light that it became painful, and you were 

glad to draw it back; after that you never tried to 

3* 



30 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

grasp the light again. That is learning By expe- 
rience." 

" Then should I have to be a fairy in order to 
learn by experience that it would not make me 
happy?" 

" Not exactly that. If you learn by experience, 
as you grow up, that it does not always make you 
happy to have your wishes gratified, you will con- 
clude that it would be the same with that wish." 

" Then, papa, are there no people happy ?" 

" None that are perfectly happy, in this world, 
but some are much happier than others." 

11 1 suppose you mean Christians, papa." 

" Yes ; but even among those that are not Chris- 
tians, some are happier than others." 

" What is the reason, if being rich or poor does 
not make any difference ?" 

" Some persons are disposed to be contented in 
any circumstances ; they are always cheerful and 
good-natured, and make every body around them 
happy. Others have a peevish, discontented dis- 
position, which would make them unhappy if they 
were masters of the world. You have seen exam- 
ples of both these kinds of persons." 

" Have I, papa? who are they, I wonder ? O, I 
know ! Cousin Sarah is the one that is always so 
happy, and" — 

11 Well it is no matter who the other is. I have 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 31 

one more thing to tell you, and that is, that any 
place or situation looks pleasanter at a distance than 
near. Those persons whom you think the happiest, 
have some secret troubles of which you know no- 
thing; and if you could change places with them, 
you would probably be glad to return to your own 
condition. When you are a little older, you shall 
read a fable on this subject that will amuse you, I 
think/' 

" O, papa, please to tell it to me, instead of letting 
me read it." 

11 1 will tell you a little about it. The fable sup- 
poses that Jupiter, being wearied with the com- 
plaints of mortals, gave them all leave to bring 
their calamities, and deposite them in a mass. So, 
there might be seen persons coming from every 
quarter, bearing loads on their shoulders, which 
they hastened to throw down as soon as they reached 
the appointed place. Most of the burdens consisted 
of some personal defect ; but no one took this op- 
portunity to get rid of his sins. There was a per- 
sonage named Fancy, with a mirror in her hand, 
who made herself very busy in the scene, causing 
each man's burden to appear much larger than 
before. After the grievances had been all deposited, 
Jupiter issued another proclamation, directing each 
one to take his choice from among the burdens 
thrown down by the others. I do not remember 



32 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

the particular exchanges which were made, but 
they were very amusing. One man who had thrown 
away a wooden leg went away with a hump on his 
back ; and a lady who had deposited her gray hairs, 
took in their stead a set of false teeth. But instead 
of being more contented, after these changes were 
completed, each one was more dissatisfied than at 
first. Groans and complaints were heard from all 
quarters, and when Jupiter again proclaimed that 
each man might resume his original burden, they 
all hastened to throw off their loads. Then a per- 
son called Patience took her station by the heap, 
which immediately shrank to half its size. She 
then fitted each man's burden to his shoulder, and 
showed him how to carry it, and the whole assem- 
bly retired, much more contented than they came." 

" Thank you, papa, that is a very funny story; 
don't you know any more?' 7 

Her father smiled. " You illustrate my remark, 
Maria, very well ; I have hardly finished one story 
and you require another. But you must wait till 



CHAPTER III. 

■ Far from unde rstarjding what is best for each other, we may be assured 
we do not understand it, even for ourselves." 

The next day evening Maria waited patiently 
till her father had finished an account he was 
giving her mother of something in which she- did 
not feel interested, and then presented her request. 

" You know you said last night, papa, that I 
must wait till to-day for another story." 

11 Well, my dear," said her father, smiling. 

"Well, papa, I thought that was the same as 
promising that you would tell me one to-day." 

"Pretty good reasoning, Maria; so I suppose I 
must tell you a story which I once read. 

" There were once three little silver trouts, who 
lived in a stream of clear water, which ran be- 
tween two high green banks. The banks pro- 
tected it from the wind and storms, so that the 
water was always smooth; and as the sun shone 
there, it was a very delightful place. Besides, 
these little fishes had plenty to eat and drink, and 
nothing to trouble them ; so that you would have 
expected them to be perfectly happy. But alas ! 
it was not so ; thess little trouts were so foolish as 



34 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

to be discontented and unhappy, and God heard 
them complaining. So he told the little fishes 
that each of them might wish for whatever he 
pleased, and it should be granted. So the first 
little trout said, * I am tired of moping up here in 
the water, and of having to stay all the time in one 
place ; I should like to have wings, to fly in the 
air as the birds do, and go where I pleased.' 

" The next said, * I am a poor, ignorant little 
fish, and I do not know how to protect myself from 
danger ; I should like to have a great deal ot 
knowledge, and understand all about hooks and 
nets, so that I might always keep out of danger. 7 

" The other little trout said, * I too am a poor, 
ignorant little fish, and for that reason, I do not 
know what is best for me ; my wish is that God 
would take care of me, and give me just what he 
sees best for me ; I do not want any thing that he 
does not choose to give me. 7 

" So God gave wings to the first, and he was 
very happy, and soared away into the air, and felt 
very proud, and despised his companions whom 
he had left in the river. He liked so much to fly, 
that he flew away oflT, till he came to a great de- 
sert, where there was no water, nothing but sand 
as far as he could see. By this time he was tired 
of flying, and was faint and thirsty, but he could 
see no water. He tried to fly farther, but could 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 35 

not ; his wings failed, and he fell down panting on 
the hot sand, where he died miserably. 

" And God gave the second little fish knowledge, 
as he had desired, and he understood all kinds of 
danger ; but instead of being happier, he was all 
the time in terror. He was afraid to go into the 
deep water, lest the great fishes there should swal 
low him up ; and he was afraid to go into the shal- 
low water, lest it should dry up and leave him. 
If he saw a fly, or any thing that he would like 
to eat, he did not venture to touch it, lest there 
should be a hook concealed under it. So he pined 
away and died. 

"But God loved the other little trout, and took 
care of him, and kept him from all dangers, so 
that he was the happiest little trout that ever lived. 

" And nt>w, which of the three fishes was the 
wisest?" 

" O, the last, papa. But I am sorry for the two 
poor little fishes that died. They were not much 
to blame, papa, after all ; they didn't know what 
w r ould happen to them." 

" No, certainly they did not : they were to blame 
for not being satisfied with what God had given 
them, and believing that he knew best." 

Maria thought for a few moments, then askeu 
for one more story. 

" Only one more, papa ; it is not late." 



36 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Well, my dear, I will tell you one more, ano 
that must be the last. 

" There was once a little girl, who had the 
promise of going with her father and mother to 
spend a few days in the country. She was much 
delighted with the plan, and for several days talked 
of nothing else. She had read a story about two 
little lambs, called Peace and Inexperience, and 
she thought she should see some lambs just like 
them. So impatient was she that she could hardly 
keep from crying, when she found that they were 
to set off an hour later than she had supposed. 
When they arrived at the place they were going 
to visit, her father lifted her from the chaise ; but 
hardly had her feet touched the ground, when she 
espied two or three dirty sheep in a pasture a little 
way off, and exclaiming, ' 0, there's my Peace and 
Inexperience!' she darted off in pursuit of them. 
Her father concluded to let her go on, and went 
into the house ; but in less than half an hour, the 
little girl came back covered with mud, and with 
a sorrowful countenance. 

11 * Well, my dear/ said her father, * is the coun- 
try as pleasant as you expected V 

" ' O, papa,' was the reply, * it is as different as 
can be. I thought the lambs would be pretty 
little white creatures, that would come when I 
called them, and eat out of my hand. But instead 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 37 

of that, they are great, black, ugly things, and when 
I tried to catch them they waddled offi and the 
more I called them, the faster they ran. Then 
instead of the pretty, green grass, it is aJl just like 
a swamp, and I slipped down ever so many times, 
and lost my shoes, and muddied my frock — I am 
sure I don't want to come to the country again.' " 

Maria had listened, blushing and smiling, to this 
story, and at its conclusion, she said : 

" O, papa, I know who you mean, but the rea- 
son I was so disappointed was, that all the books 
I had read told about their snowy fleeces, and their 
playing and frisking about ; so I thought it must 
be true." 

" You w r ill find out one of these days, that every 
thing in books is not true. And now, my dear, 
go to bed. Good night." 

" Good night, papa." 



CHAPTER IV. 

11 My son, give me thine heart." 

" Pa," said Maria suddenly, one day after she 
had been thinking for some time, " Pa, what does 
heart mean ? When you talk about my heart, I 
can't think of any thing but those gingerbread 
hearts that we eat." 

" You know, dear, that your heart is not any 
thing which you can see." 

" O yes, pa, I know that, I know my heart is not 
like those, but I want to know what it is like." 

" You know there is something within you, 
which loves and hates ; this something is your heart. 
So when God says, * Give me your heart,' he 
means, * Love me.' " 

" Pa, it seems as if T wanted to love God, but I 
don't know how." 

" You know how to love me, don't you?' 

" O yes, papa." 

" But I never told you how to love me." 

" O, but that is very different." 

"Different— how?" 

" Why, papa, I see you, and know all about you, 
and you love me." 



THE pastor's daughter. 39 

" Do you love nobody that you have never seen, 
Maria?" 

" I don't know, papa ; yes, to be sure, I love 
grandpapa, and uncle George, and aunt Caro- 
line. But then I have heard you talk about them, 
papa, and I know that you love them, and they have 
sent me presents." 

" So I have talked to you about God, and you 
know that I love Him, and he has made you more 
presents than every body else in the world. Be- 
sides, you love people sometimes who have never 
given you any thing, and whom none of us have 
ever seen. Don't you remember little Henry and 
his bearer?" 

" Yes, papa, I love Henry, I am sure." 

" You see then it is possible to love the charac- 
ters of people whom you have never seen. Now, 
the character of God is infinitely lovely ; He de- 
serves to be loved more than all other beings to- 
gether ; and if you love those who have been kind 
to you, only think what God has done for you. 
He gave you parents to take care of you, when you 
could not take care of yourself; he has given you 
food, and clothing, and health, and friends ; he has 
watched over you by night and by day, and when 
you were sick he has made you well ; and now, 
when he comes to you, after all this, and says, ' My 
daughter, give me thine heart,' you say, ' No, I 



40 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

can't, I don't know how ; I can love my father -and 
mother, and brothers and sisters, but I cannot love 
God, who gave them all to me.' " 

u O, papa, I will, I do love him," replied Maria, 
with fervor. 

" Perhaps you think so now, Maria." 

" O, I shall always love him, I know I shall." 

Her father smiled. 

" Papa, you cannot see into my heart — how do 
you know that I do not love God?" 

" Suppose you should come to me every day, and 
say, ' Dear papa, how I love you,' and then go rignt 
away and disobey me — could I believe you ?" 

" No, papa." 

"Well, dear, how can I believe that you love 
God, when I see you every day doing those things 
which he forbids ?" 

Maria could not reply to this, and so the conver- 
sation closed. She was obliged to confess to her- 
self that her father had spoken the truth, but still 
she thought it no evidence that she did not love 
God. " I never thought," said she to herself, " that 
when I am cross to George, or any thing like that, 
I was sinning against God; at least, it never seemed 
as if He minded any thing about it ; and I did not 
think about His being so good either; but now I 
remember it, I shall never do so again, and then 
pa will see that I love God." 



CHAPTER V. 

" If we had been in the days of our fathers, we would not have been par- 
takers with them in the blood of the prophets." 

Maria was surprised to find how much more 
difficult it was to "be good" than she had imagin- 
ed. It seemed to her that she committed even 
more faults than usual, now that she was particu- 
larly anxious to do well ; but this was because she 
watched herself more narrowly than she had been 
accustomed to do. However, she was not dis- 
couraged during the first two or three days ; if she 
failed one day, she began again the next; but at 
length she began to be impatient, and grew tired 
of such constant watchfulness. At length, when 
her resolution was quite forgotten, and she had 
unconsciously relapsed into all her former habits, 
she was again led to reflection, by her father's 
account of the sufferings and death of Christ She 
listened with eager attention, and then, with a 
countenance full of horror and indignation, began 
to express her hatred of the Jews, and her pity for 
the Savior. 

11 Papa, how long ago did Christ live?" 

"About 1800 years ago, my dear/" 



42 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

M 0, pa, don't you wish you had been alive then ? 
I am sure I wish I had. I would have given him 
my house, and my bed, and every thing I had, and 
-hen he would not have said, * The Son of man 
hath not where to lay his head.* How I do wish 
I had lived then. And we would have kept those . 
ugly, cruel Jews from killing him. O, how I 
hate them — don't you, papa?" 

" I do not dare to say what I would have done, 
Maria : if we had lived when Christ did, we should 
probably have treated him as the Jews did." 

" Papa, you don't think that I should have help- 
ed to crucify Christ!" 

"How can I disbelieve the Bible, Maria? and 
this tells us that all hearts are alike." 

" O, papa, I never — never" — but her sobs would 
not allow her to go on. 

" Maria, those same ■ ugly, cruel' Jews thought 
about themselves, just as you do about yourself. 
They said, * If we had lived in the days of our fa- 
thers, we would not have helped to kill the pro- 
phets. 7 And yet, you see, they did what was in- 
finitely worse." 

A pause. 

" But, papa, I don't see what this has to do with 
me ; J have never done any such things." 

" My dear, you have had no opportunity to show 
your hatred and contempt of Christ in the wav 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 43 

the Jews did; but have you not done it just as 
plainly, in other ways? You say, how you should 
have loved the Savior if you had lived then; 
why do you not love him now? You say, you 
would have given him every thing you have ; but 
what sacrifice have you ever made for him ? You 
wish you had been one of his disciples; but you 
disobey him every day. He requires the same 
things from you now, or some of them, that he did 
from his disciples. When I see you governing 
your temper, becoming amiable, gentle, and sub- 
missive, and doing all in your power to please 
Christ, I shall be more ready to believe, that, if 
you had lived when he was on earth, you would 
have left all and followed him." 

Maria was much distressed, and wept violently. 
She could not think her heart was so bad as her 
father represented it, and yet she dared not say so, 
while her conduct was no better. She remem- 
bered her former con /ersation with her father, 
and *Le transient efforts to which it had given rise, 
and wondered how it happened that she had for- 
gotten them. However, she determined to " try 
again," and to begin the next morning — for Maria, 
like some older people, never dated her plans of 
reformation from the present moment — to do every 
thing which she thought would please Christ. 



44 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

For the present she dismissed the matter, some 
what comforted by her good resolutions, and went 
to play at making houses, with her brother George. 
So transient are the impressions of childhood ! 



CHAPTER VI. 



"In vain, by reason and by rule, 

We try to bend the will, 
For none, but in the Savior's school, 

Can learn the heavenly skill." 



The next day, Maria rose with her head full of 
her resolution, and with sanguine hopes that she 
should be successful in observing it. During the 
former part of the day nothing occurred to disturb 
her equanimity, and she congratulated herself on 
having spent, as she thought, half the day without 
a blot. In the afternoon, she was sitting by the 
fire, reading a story, when her mother requested 
her to go into the next room, and bring her a por- 
ringer of milk for the baby. Maria had just 
reached the most interesting part of the story; she 
was very unwilling to lay down her book, and she 
walked slowly along, reading all the way, till her 
mother told her to put down the book, as she 
could not do two things at once. Then she threw 
down the book, and ran for the milk in such a 
hurry, that she spilt part of it by the way. " Gen- 
tly ! gently ! my daughter," said her mother ; but 
Maria flew to take up her book again. When she 



46 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

went to her place, however, she found that George 
had taken the little chair in which she had been 
sitting, and was dragging it round the room in 
triumph. 

" That s my chair, George; let me have it," 
said she, impatiently. The child paid no attention 
to her, but went on dragging the chair, and calling 
it his "bonny." 

Her mother was beginning to ask if another 
chair would not answer as well, but Maria had 
already pulled it from him, and the little boy be- 
gan to cry. 

"Maria!" said her mother, reprovingly. 

" It is my chair." 

" I know it, my dear, but could you not have 
taken another ? It would have gratified your 
brother, and he probably would not have wanted 
it long." 

" I do not like the other chairs, they are so 
high." 

" But are we never to do any thing we do not 
like ? If you had not wanted it, there would have 
been no merit in giving it up. Besides, your 
brother would have given you the chair if you 
had spoken gently and affectionately, or offered 
Aim something else in its stead." 

" I don't believe he would; he is always getting 
my things." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 47 

" 1 hoped, Maria, that you would see and ac- 
knowledge your fault; but since you thus perse- 
vere in justifying yourself, I wish you to go to 
your room, and remain there till you are in a 
more proper frame of mind." 

This was a sad conclusion to Maria's day. The 
first fifteen minutes she spent in crying ; partly 
from disappointment respecting the book she was 
reading, partly on account of the failure of her re- 
solution, and partly from anger. Then she 
thought over all the circumstances of her fault, 
and endeavored to make them appear as favorable 
for herself as possible. At first, she said she 
would not go down at all, that night ; thus intend- 
ing to punish herself, in order that her mother 
might be alarmed at her staying so long in the 
cold. Recollecting, however, that, in this case, 
her father would be informed of her misconduct, 
she endeavored to assume a pleasant countenance, 
though without feeling sincere contrition and hu- 
mility. On descending to the parlor, she found 
her mother occupied with household cares; her 
father had not yet come in, and when he did, no 
allusion was made to Maria's fault. He was ex- 
hausted with the cares and labors of the day, and 
did not talk with his children, as usual. They 
were sent to bed at an early hour, but Maria did 
not lay her head upon her pillow with tue sweet 



48 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

feeling of self-approval. Notwithstanding the ex 
cuses with which she endeavored to satisfy her con 
science, she could not but be sensible that her con- 
duct had been very different from that which the 
meek and lowly Jesus would approve. But then 
it was the first trial, and it was so provoking to be 
interrupted when she was reading, and always to 
have to give up to George. Next day she would 
try again, and would not be angry, let George do 
what he would. 

Perhaps, if temptation had presented itself in the 
mode in which Maria expected it, she would have 
kept this resolution ; but it came in a form for 
which she was not prepared. Her father promised, 
if nothing unexpected should occur to prevent, to 
take Maria and her brother to ride in the afternoon. 
This was a pleasure she had been long anticipating, 
and the prospect of being gratified put her in good 
humor. Every one knows how easy it is to do 
well in such circumstances. Maria performed all 
that was required of her to her mother's satisfac- 
tion, was ready to oblige every one, caressed Will- 
iam, allowed him to play with her doll, and re- 
frained from a passionate exclamation, which rose 
to her lips, when she saw one of its arms dislocated 
by the rough treatment of the little boy. 

Elated by this victory, and pleased with herself 
and every body else, Maria was dancing about the 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 49 

room, in the gladness of her heart, and was expect- 
ing her father's summons, with her bonnet on, half 
an hour before the time, when he was suddenly 
called to visit a parishioner, supposed to be dying. 
He went immediately, of course, saying to Maria 
that he was sorry to disappoint her, but would take 
her some other day. Maria's disappointment now, 
was proportioned to her previous elation. Bursting 
into tears the moment her father had left the house, 
she declared that it was always so ; she never ex- 
pected any thing in her life but she was disappoint- 
ed ; and that she did not believe she should ever 
ride now. 

After listening to her impatient murmurs for some 
time, and essaying various topics of consolation, 
her mother asked, if she recollected against 
whom her complaints were directed, and who it is 
that orders all events. Maria well knew r , but found 
it no easier to submit ; her will was opposed to the 
will of God, and her heart rose in rebellion against 
him. Imperfectly conscious, as she was, of these 
feelings, they excited alarm in her, and she endea- 
vored to hush them; but it was in vain. Even 
when she had, by a strong effort, succeeded in 
quieting her rebellious murmurings for a few mo 
ments, fancy painted in strong colors the pleasure 
she might have enjoyed, and again her disappoint- 
ment and vexation burst forth. It mav be supposed 
5 



50 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

that Maria would be convinced, by these feelings, ot 
the truth of her fathers assertion, that she did not 
love God ; but this was not the case. So ing^niou** 
is the human heart in finding excuses, or, at least 
palliations of its guilt, that Maria persuaded herseli 
that no one could be expected to be patient under 
so severe a disappointment, and that, if she was 
vexed for a little while, it was nothing, so long as 
she loved God all the rest of the time. 

We cannot describe each of Maria's efforts, and 
its result, particularly, as in the former case, they 
were gradually relinquished and forgotten. TJiey 
were not, however, useless ; for she began, after a 
time, reluctantly to admit the conviction, that there 
was no love to God in her heart. At first, she 
had mistaken the selfish love and gratitude which 
any person may feel in return for benefits, for sin- 
cere affection. She was pleased with herself, too, 
on account of her good resolutions, and imagined 
that God was pleased with her : in these circum- 
stances, it was not difficult to be deceived in regard 
to her feelings towards Him. 

But when her attempts at reformation failed, the 
impatience and dissatisfaction which she felt with 
herself, extended to Him ; thoughts of Him became 
unpleasant, and she banished them, as far as pos- 
sible. Thus, with her scZ/*-complacency, her com- 
placency towards God disappeared. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 51 

Yet it was by slow degrees that Maria became 
sensible of this. As her feelings were ardent, and 
easily excited, she was generally much affected, 
and wept abundantly when listening to her father's 
conversation ; and it was easy to mistake these na- 
tural emotions for love and gratitude. And, if she 
found it difficult to believe that she did not love 
God, much less would she be convinced that she 
hated Him. Her father labored much to convince 
her of the enmity of her heart, and the necessity 
of regeneration. 



CHAPTER VII. 

"The carnal mind is enmity against God." 

One day, after a conversation on the usual sub- 
ject, it occurred to Maria, that it was very strange 
her father should be so anxious to convince her of 
what would only make her unhappy, without do- 
ing her any good, so far as she could see. She 
proposed the question to him. 

" This is the reason," said he. " Before you can 
be happy, before you can go to heaven, you must 
have a new heart; and before you can have a new 
heart, you must be convinced that you need it, and 
that your present heart is unreconciled to God. A 
sick man will never apply to a physician, till he 
knows that he is sick ; a blind man will never seek 
a guide, till he is convinced of his blindness." 

" I am sure, papa, I am willing to be convinced, 
if it is the truth. But I don't see how I could hate 
a person without knowing it." 

" It is in perfect accordance with what the Bible 
tells us, my dear, that the heart is • deceitful above 
all things.' How would it be deceitful, if it always 
tells you the truth?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 53 

" Then, papa, how can we ever know any thing 
about ourselves ? Do our hearts always deceive 
us?" 

11 It is very difficult to know ourselves, and 
probably, most people know much less of them- 
selves than they suppose. In those things where 
our inclinations are not interested, that is, where 
the heart has nothing to do, we may safely trust 
it ; but in no other case. Now, our inclinations 
are very much interested in the question of our 
loving or not loving God, and therefore will in- 
fallibly mislead us." 

"How are our inclinations interested, papa?" 

" It is more pleasant for any one to believe that 
he feels gratitude and love for God, than that he 
is destitute of these emotions; because every man's 
conscience tells him that he ought to feel them, 
and the belief that he does so, flatters his pride. 
But there is another still stronger reason. No 
person likes to believe himself exposed to great 
and imminent danger, particularly if he can es- 
cape from it only by complying with humbling 
conditions. Only think, then, how hard it must 
be to persuade a man that he is a transgressor of 
God's law, exposed to its penalty, and that the 
only way of escape is by repentance and submis- 
sion." 

" I should think, though, they would rather 
5* 



54 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

know the truth. It can't do them any good to 
deceive themselves for a little while." 

"Very true, my dear; so they would all say 
about other things. There is another way in 
which the heart deceives. When you love God, 
you think of Him, I suppose, as a Being who 
loves you, and you remember some of the bless- 
ings you have received from Him. Now, Christ 
says that sinners love those that love them. Every 
person feels a sort of selfish love or gratitude for 
those who confer favors on them, and this is what 
you feel for God." 

" But how is it wrong, papa, to love people who 
are kind to us?" 

11 It is not wrong, dear, but neither is there 
any goodness in it. Your only reason for loving 
God is, that you think He loves you, and is pleas- 
ed with you ; but if you should see that you are a 
sinner, and that He is determined to punish you, 
I am afraid your love would vanish." 

Maria feared this was true. Her father went on. 

" The God whom you love is not the God of 
the Bible, but a false deity, a creature of your own 
imagination. You leave out the holiness, and 
justice, and truth of God ; you think of a being 
who is kind and merciful, and who is, moreover, 
good to you; and such a being you find it easy to 
love. Instead of this, we must not only take into 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 55 

view God's holiness and hatred of sin, but we 
must love Him on account of these very perfec- 
tions, and feel that we could not love Him without 
them." 

" I don't see how we can love any body who 
hates us, and is going to punish us." 

" God does not hate any of his creatures, my 
daughter. He must regard their characters and 
conduct with disapprobation, but he feels only be- 
nevolence towards them. As to his determination 
to punish sinners, when we feel that a punishment 
is just, it does not prevent us from loving the per- 
son that inflicts it. For instance, when you display 
selfishness, or ill-temper, I am obliged to punish 
you, but this does not diminish your affection for 
me. If God did not hate sin and punish it, he 
would cease to be a holy Being, and would lose 
all his glory.'' 

It was now Maria's bed-time, and the conversa- 
tion closed. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

" Self-knowledge of all knowledge is the best, 
By most pretended, but by few possessed." 

After this conversation, Maria did not take as 
much pleasure as she had done in thinking of God. 
After all, she could not see why the holiness and 
justice of his character were so essential to his 
glory, or why a Being whose requirements were 
less strict and difficult, would not be entitled to as 
much love and reverence. But though she felt 
that God did not appear amiable, in the light in 
which he had been now presented to her. she was 
far from perceiving that this implied guilt in her- 
self. It seemed to her that God had become less 
lovely, instead of her having just learned that she 
did not love Him. Of the desperate wickedness 
of her heart she as yet knew nothing, but was 
soon to learn it by painful experience. 

A few weeks after this, her father, on returning 
one day from some parochial visits, found Maria 
in tears. 

" What is the matter, my dear?" inquired he. 
Maria sobbed more violently than before, but did 
not reply. 



THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 57 

Her mother said that Maria had been angry with 
George, and had taken from him one of her books, 
with so much violence as to hurt him. Her father 
looked much concerned, but did not speak for some 
time; during which Maria, who dreaded nothing 
so much as her father's displeasure, was overwhelm- 
ed with shame and distress. At length he said, 

"Maria, when you committed a similar fault 
last week, I told you, that, as you were a reasona- 
ble being, I preferred governing you by reason, to 
restraining you by fear. I explained to you the 
evils which would result from your giving way to 
your temper, and told you how much more diffi- 
cult it would be to acquire self-control some years 
hence, than now. I think you promised me, then, 
to make an effort to govern yourself. Was it not so?" 

44 Yes, papa," sobbed Maria, " and I meant to 
try, and I thought when you talked to me so kindly, 
that I never should be angry again in my life ; and 
papa, I did try a little while, but I forgot it again, 
and — and" — 

" But, my dear child, how can I place any con- 
fidence in your promises or resolutions, you have 
so often broken them ?" 

" I know it, papa, I cannot tell what is the reason 
If I am ever so sure of not doing wrong again, the 
very next day I forget it all, and I do the same 
things." 



58 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" I can tell you the reason, Maria ; it is that 
wicked heart of yours, about which I have told 
you so often. As long as you have this heart, you 
will sin." 

" I don't see as I can help myself, then, papa." 

" You must first feel that you are to blame, that 
it is your own fault you cannot do better, and then 
seek the assistance of the Holy Spirit. Your ef- 
forts have not succeeded, because they have been 
made in your own strength ; and while you depend 
on yourself, you never will succeed." 

" Papa, do you suppose that if I tried as hard as 
I could, I couldn't keep from being angry myself?" 

Her father smiled. " I thought, my dear, you 
had already tried as hard as you could." 

"Well, papa, you know — but — " 

" But you think you could do a little more yet, 
if you should try your utmost ? Well, dear, I do 
think you cannot keep from any sin without God's 
help." 

" Not for one day, papa ?" 

" Not for one moment." 

" O, papa, you know I might shut myself up in a 
room alone, and not speak or move the whole day." 

" That would be nothing to the purpose, you 
would still sin." 

"How, papa?" 

11 The law of God as much forbids sinful thoughts 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 59 

and feelings, as words and actions ; and you would 
have abundant opportunity to exercise these in your 
retirement. But, setting aside thoughts and feel- 
ings for the present, you will not be able to spend 
a day without committing some outward fault, 
unless you have the assistance of the Holy Spirit." 

Maria's pride took fire at this remark. She 
knew that she was not quite so bad as that; she 
could certainly be good for one day, and she had 
been before now. She did not say this to her father, 
for she was afraid he would say something about 
self-conceit ; but he read it in her countenance. 

" I see," said he, "that you do not believe me; 
well, dear, try for yourself." 

He knew that the depravity of the heart is a 
truth which each one must learn for himself; and 
that it is learned only by repeated vain efforts, under 
the teaching of the Spirit of God. 

As to Maria, she had not forgotten her previous 
failures, but by the self-deception often practised by 
the unrenewed heart, she flattered herself that she 
could still do more. Her pride was mortified at 
the idea of acknowledging her dependance, and 
she determined to try her utmost, for one day, at 
least. 



CHAPTER IX. 

" Something we thought, is blotted ; we resolved, 
Is shaken ; we renounced, returns again." 

The next morning Maria slept later than usual, 
and the domestic who came to wake her, found 
some difficulty in doing it. She was a good-na- 
tured girl, but this morning, being in haste, and 
finding it impossible to wake Maria by speaking, 
she took hold of her, and shook her somewhat 
roughly. This, it must be confessed, is not a 
very pleasant mode : of being waked from sound 
slumber, and Maria did not relish it at all. 

" Let me alone," said she, peevishly ; " I shan't 
get up half so soon for your shaking me so." 

" Your father and mother are up, and breakfast 
is almost ready," said the girl. 

The mention of her father fortunately reminded 
Maria of her resolution, and roused her effectually. 
Somewhat ashamed, she rose silently, and endea- 
vored to recall what she had said, and ascertain 
whether she had broken her resolution. On the 
whole, she concluded that it might "go for no- 
thing," particularly, as she had been half asleep 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 61 

when she spoke. So, with a determination to be 
doubly vigilant, she went down to breakfast. After 
breakfast and prayers were over, Maria, as usual, 
sat down by her mother to sew for an hour. She 
was not fond of needle-work, and the hours allot- 
ted to this employment were usually regarded 
with great disgust, unless, when, occasionally, her 
mother rendered them less tedious by relating a 
story. This morning there could be no story and 
no conversation, for her mother had letters to 
write. To make amends for this privation, Maria 
foolishly indulged herself in thinking how u nice' , 
it would be if she had no work to do, and could 
read story-books all day long ; or if she were a 
nobleman's daughter, and had servants to wait on 
her, and a carriage to ride in, and a beautiful 
palace and garden for her own. Then she went 
on to still wilder flights of fancy, wishing she pos- 
sessed some of those marvellous powers bestowed 
by fairies and genii ; for instance, if she had a lamp 
like Aladdin's, what would she do with it? Maria 
did not consider that these vain and foolish imagi- 
nations only rendered her real situation more dis- 
agreeable to her. 

She was so engrossed by them, that her work 
was nearly half finished, before she perceived that 
she was sewing on the wrong side. 

"O dear! what a shame!" exclaimed she; 
6 



62 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

"mamma, I shall have to pick out all I have 
done." 

Her mother looked ; she was sorry, but told 
Maria she should not speak so impatiently ; she 
had no one to blame but herself. The best thing 
she could do now, was to be cheerful and good- 
tempered about it. 

But Maria did not feel at all disposed to be 
cheerful or good-tempered. She began, discon- 
tentedly, to undo the work of the morning, saying 
that it would take the whole forenoon, and she 
should not be able to read a word. She did not 
forget her resolution this time; the recollection 
had sufficient force to restrain her from giving 
any further utterance to her feelings, but not to 
prevent her indulging them. She twitched the 
thread and pulled the work in every direction ; 
however, at last, making a virtue of necessity, she 
applied herself in earnest, and the task was com- 
pleted. She could not quite decide whether the 
day was lost ; "to be sure, she had felt impatient for 
a moment, and who would not % but she soon got 
over it." 

When her mother had finished writing, she cut 
an orange in two pieces, directing Maria to take 
one, and give the other to George. One of the 
pieces was a little larger than the other ; and Ma- 
ria, saying to herself, " I am the largest child, and 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 63 

so ought to have the largest piece," took this, and 
gave the other to George. She acted without re- 
flection, from the selfish impulse of the moment, 
but the next moment her conscience reproved her. 
She looked up to see if her mother had observed 
it; she had evidently done so, though she said 
nothing ; and Maria felt mortified and vexed. 

" I may as well give up trying for to-day," 
thought she. " What a fool I was, just for a little 
piece of orange. To be sure, it is nothing very 
bad" — but the recollections of the morning occur- 
ring to her — " I believe this day is spoiled, I will 
try again to-morrow." 

Maria felt as some children do when they have 
made a blot in their writing-books — " O it's no 
matter how the rest of this page is written; we 
will hurry it off! and do the next better." So, as 
she had "given up trying," she seemed to feel 
herself at liberty to act just as she pleased. 



CHAPTER X. 

" How hard a thing it is to purify, and make meet for glory, a spirit born in 
sin, and conceived in iniquity, prone to evil as the sparks to fly upward, but 
to all good unwilling : a soil that bears indigenous every bitter and unwhole- 
some weed, but will only be cultured into fruitfulness, by toil and care, favor* 
ed with the dews of heaven, and the sun-beams of celestial grace." 

" There is no retirement except that of the grave, where the infirmities of 
human nature may not find opportunity to exhibit themselves." 

It would occupy too much time to detail each 
of Maria's trials, and the result. They all issued 
in complete failure ; never was she able, with un- 
alloyed satisfaction, to recall the events of the day. 
Either she had spoken disrespectfully to her mo- 
ther, or impatiently to George, or she had been 
disobligingly selfish, or, in some other way, had 
yielded to temptation. One reason why she was 
so frequently disappointed, may be found, perhaps, 
in the fact, that she never continued her efforts fcr 
more than two or three days together. By this 
time she generally became weary, and relapsed 
into her usual habits of inattention and careless- 
ness. 

At these repeated failures, she was, however, 
surprised and vexed. What could it mean ? Some- 
times she found an answer to this question in thd 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 65 

peculiar circumstances of her transgression, which 
seemed to offer some palliation ; at others she be- 
stowed on herself all manner of harsh epithets, for 
her carelessness and folly. At the same time, if 
any one else had applied to her the same titles, she 
would have been highly offended. Neither was 
she more disposed to acknowledge her dependence, 
and need of divine aid. On the contrary, she only 
became more determined to conquer, at each repe- 
tition of her attempts; for her pride was enlisted in 
the contest, and pride is marvellously persevering. 

Poor Maria thought she had never met with 
half so many temptations and difficulties as now, 
w T hen she was trying to be good. It seemed as if ev- 
ery body and everything were conspiring against 
her, In this she was, perhaps, correct ; since, if 
she was to be taught, experimentally, the sinful- 
ness of her heart, temptations might be necessary 
to develop it. Many persons have, doubtless, 
succeeded in effecting an external reformation, on 
the same principles of pride and self-righteousness 
with which Maria commenced her efforts; but 
how much better to be taught by disappointment 
our need of help from above, than to build on a 
self-righteous foundation ! 

In looking back upon her faults, Maria almost 
always fancied that they were owing to forgetful- 
ness. M If I had but remembered my resolution," 
6* 



66 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

she often said, " I should not have done so." She 
had read or heard a story of a certain prince, who 
had a ring which pricked him, whenever he did 
wrong; but he finally became so weary of its re- 
proofs, that he threw it away. " O, if I had such 
a ring," thought she, "how delightful it would be. 
Then T should always think in the right time, 
and I should never do any thing wrong, and I 
would not throw it away, as he did." When she 
expressed this wish to her father, he told her that 
she had such a ring in her conscience, if she 
would attend to it. He also assured her, that if 
she had a ring, she would either become accus- 
tomed to its pricks, and so disregard them, or she 
would grow angry, and throw it away. 

Maria, however, could not be convinced of this; 
she tnought her conscience not half so good as a 
ring, and devised several ludicrous methods of 
supplying the place of a ring, none of which were 
carried into effect. 

Then she thought it was a great pity that people 
were not made to live alone; and she formed a 
great many speculations about hermitages and 
desert islands, where there would be no trouble- 
some Georges, nothing to disturb her from morn- 
ing till night, and where she should consequently 
be perfect. Her father, however, did not seem 
more sanguine as to the results of this plan — if it 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 



67 



were practicable — than he had been in regard to 
the ring. 

M I have three objections to your project," said 
he. " The first I will illustrate by an anecdote. 
There was once a man who found it impossible to 
govern his temper in society, and he thought, as 
you do, that it would be better to live alone. So 
he retired to a hermitage, where his cruise of water 
fell over three times in succession, and spilt the 
water. At this he flew into a passion, dashed the 
bottle to the ground, and broke it. When he came 
to himself, he perceived that solitude did not se- 
cure him from temptation, and he returned to the 
world. 

" My second objection is, that if your theory 
were true, and there were no temptations in re- 
tirement, neither would there be any opportunity 
for virtue. It is an old saying, that * the devil is 
pleasant when he is pleased ;' and there would be 
little merit in being good-natured, with nothing to 
make you otherwise. 

" My third objection is, that so far, at least, as 
our fellow-creatures are concerned, solitude de- 
prives us of the power of doing good as well as of 
doing evil ; and thus, one part of the law of God 
would be left unobserved." 

Maria was convinced, and gave up her project 
of a hermitage. 



CHAPTER XI. 

" The promises in the Bible are not made to one act, out to the continued 
habit of prayer." 

Maria had, by this time, so much experience of 
her inability to do right, that her understanding 
and conscience were convinced of her need of Di- 
vine assistance. But, as was observed in the last 
chapter, this conviction did not produce humility, 
or in the least affect her heart, which was still 
proud and unreconciled to God. She regarded her- 
self as rather unfortunate than guilty; as one who 
was making the most strenuous efforts to do right, 
but was prevented by her wicked heart — a some- 
thing, in her view, quite distinct from herself. 

However, as she now felt willing, in words, to 
acknowledge her dependance, she supposed that 
this was all her father had desired. " Papa was 
right," thought she, " in saying that I could not be 
good without God's help; but now lam convinced 
of this, I will pray to Him every day." 

She felt as if there was something very merito- 
rious in making this acknowledgment, and as if 
God would be under obligation to her for praying 
to Him. Of course, she supposed that her prayers 






THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 69 

would be answered immediately, and that all diffi- 
culties would now vanish before her. It is not in- 
tended that Maria had never been taught to pray, 
but she had never, at least since her father's asser- 
tion of her inability to do right, sought the assist- 
ance of the Holy Spirit. 

The next morning, however, she prayed, as she 
thought, with great fervency, and then descended 
to the sitting-room, with full expectations of suc- 
cess. In the course of it, she was surprised to find 
that her difficulties did not seem to have diminished. 
Indeed, as she had expected that the grace of God 
would enable her to overcome all difficulties at 
once, without any effort on her part, she experi- 
enced even more .dissatisfaction on the review of 
the day, than had been the case for some time past. 
The next day it was the same; and at the close of 
it, when she took her accustomed seat by her father, 
she could not conceal her disappointment and vex- 
ation. Bursting into tears, she began, 

" Papa, you said the reason I did not succeed in 
trying to be good, was, that I depended on myself. 
So to-day and yesterday I prayed to God to help me, 
and I have been worse than I was before." 

Her father could with difficulty repress a smile 
at this bitter complaint, that a single prayer, pro- 
ceeding too from a selfish and unhumbled heart, had 
not effected a conquest which would probably re- 



70 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

quire months of prayerful effort. There were so 
many errors, so much misunderstanding and self- 
ignorance implied in her remark, that he hardly 
knew how to reply. 

Thinking it best, however, to say nothing at that 
time of the character of her prayers, he replied, 

" It is true, my dear, that I accounted for your 
failures in this way ; but I did not tell you, did I, 
that one prayer, or even two, would put all your dif- 
ficulties to flight, and reform your temper at once?" 

'• No, papa, you did not say so ; but I thought, of 
course, God would hear me as soon as I prayed." 

" But it is not necessary to suppose that. Even 
when prayer is offered aright, and when God \n- 
tends to answer it, he seldom does so immediately, 
and at once. He bestows a little grace at a time, 
and often not until many weeks or months of 
prayer." 

Maria was surprised, but not discouraged. She 
thought it would not be difficult to pray for ever so 
long a time, if she might receive an answer at last. 

" After all, papa," said she, " I do not see why 1 
should have been worse than usual to-day." 

" I do not think it certain that it has been so 
You were expecting such great things, that the dis 
appointment might make you imagine it ; or per 
haps you expected that God's help would rendei 
it unnecessary for you to make any effort." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 71 

" But didn't you tell me, papa, that I could do no- 
thing of myself, and that I must have God's help ?" 

11 Yes : but God's assisting you to govern your- 
self, is very different from his doing it for you, 
whilj you sit still." 

11 Then, papa, must I try just as hard as if I did 
not pray ?." 

" Certainly : praying will do you no good with- 
out trying. I have something else to tell you about 
your prayers, but it is late now, we will wait till to- 
morrow. Good night, my dear." 

Maria, quite encouraged, bid her father good- 
night, and went up stairs with a lightened heart. 
She prayed for a new heart, not expecting an im- 
mediate answer, but regarding her prayer as one 
link out of a chain of performances that were to 
ootain for her what she desired. She even tried to 
form some calculation as to the length of time 
which she would probably be obliged to wait for 
an answer to her petitions. 



CHAPTER XII. 

" The sacrifice of the wicked is an abomination to the Lord." 

" I told you last evening, Maria, that you must 
not expect one act of prayer, nor even continued 
prayer, without effort, to prevail. I will now tell 
you something else about your prayers, which, 
perhaps, will surprise you. But first, did you not 
feel, after having prayed, as if you were better 
than before, and as if God was under some obli- 
gation to hear you ?" 

After a moment's thought, Maria answered, " I 
don't know but I did, papa." 

" I thought so, from what you said last night. 
You seemed to suppose that God would be cruel 
and unjust if he refused to help you. Now, I 
must tell you, that God is not only not obliged to 
answer you, but that he has reason to be displeased 
with you on account of your prayers." 

Maria looked at her father to see if she had un- 
derstood him aright. 

" Suppose, Maria, a poor person should come to 
you for food or clothing ; would you expect him 
to demand it as a right, or to entreat it as a favor ?" 



THE pastor's daughter. 73 

"As a favor, papa, of course." 

" Well, now suppose further, that this beggar 
was a person who had injured you very much; 
suppose that you had frequently assisted him be- 
fore, that he had abused all your benefits, and then 
endeavored to prejudice others against you — what 
should you think in that case V* 

" I should think he was very impudent to come 
again, and should send him away fast enough." 

" At least, you see that you would be under no 
obligation to relieve him?" 

M No, indeed, papa." 

" Well, my dear, your case with regard to God 
is just that of this poor beggar. He has been be- 
stowing blessings upon you, all your life long, 
which you have abused, and for which you have 
felt no gratitude. Even if you had had any 
claim to his favor, you would have forfeited it by 
this conduct. And yet, you presume to accuse 
God of injustice, because he does not immediately 
grant what you ask." 

Maria was struck by these remarks. After re- 
maining silent for some time, she said, 

" Papa, I believe I see why God is not obliged 
to hear me ; but I do not see why he should be 
displeased with me for praying." 

" You thought, however, it seems, that you 
should find reason enough to be displeased with 
7 



74 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

the beggar, in the case I supposed. However, 
that is not the reason of God's displeasure ; for he 
has invited us to come to him at all times, and he 
is never weary of answering our sincere petitions. 
But, to return to the beggar. Suppose that you 
possessed the power of reading the heart, and that 
all the time he was talking, you could see that his 
heart was full of enmity to you ; that he was 
prompted merely by selfishness, to come and ask 
favors for which he felt no gratitude ; if, in short, 
you saw that he was not sincere in one word that 
he uttered, you would be displeased and disgusted." 

Maria's countenance expressed her assent. Her 
father continued : — 

" Or suppose I should perceive that all your ex- 
pressions of love to me were insincere — and that, 
while you were professing a great deal of affec- 
tion for me, you felt none — would you not expect, 
that instead of being pleased, I should be disgust- 
ed, just in proportion to the vehemence of your 
protestations ?" 

" Yes, papa ; but I do not see how this applies 
to my prayers. I am sure I am sincere in them." 

"In one sense, Maria, you are sincere. You 
sincerely wish to be saved from punishment, but 
this is mere selfishness. You do not sincerely 
love God, or repent of your sins. The beggar 
was sincere in desiring that you would grant his 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 75 

request for assistance : but, as his sincerity was 
merely the result of selfishness, it was no recom- 
mendation." 

This seemed so clear that Maria could make no 
reply ; yet she did not feel satisfied. If she was 
not sincere now, when she thought herself so, how 
could she ever be sure of having rig-lit feelings? 
Mortified and distressed by such reflections, Maria 
retired to bed with a half determination not " to 
try any longer." 

An incident occurred the next day, which 
afforded an opportunity for a still farther elucida- 
tion of the subject. Maria's brother William was 
guilty of a fault, in which he stubbornly persisted, 
in spite of arguments and expostulations. His 
father found it necessary to resort to punishment, 
which proved more efficacious. The little boy 
was loud in his entreaties for forgiveness, and 
promises of future obedience. 

After the affair was settled, her father observed 
to Maria, that it afforded an illustration of the sub- 
ject they had conversed on. William had resist- 
ed argument and persuasion ; he evidently felt no 
real contrition, but the apprehension of punish- 
ment had induced him to utter selfish entreaties 
for forgiveness, exactly similar to her prayers. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

" Why doth he yet find fault? For who hath resisted his will*' 

Maria came one day to her father, with an ob- 
jection which seemed to have great weight in her 
mind, and which, she probably supposed, he would 
find some difficulty in answering. 

11 Papa," said she, " I don't see how I can help 
being wicked; I didn't make my own heart." 

" Do you remember, Maria, what I told you the 
heart means ?" 

"I believe, papa, you said it means the affec- 
tions." 

" Very well, my dear. Then to say that God 
made your heart, is the same as to say that he 
gave you the power of loving and hating certain 
objects. You understand this?" 

"But there is nothing sinful in this power of 
loving and hating, is there?" 

" The exercise of it would be holy or sinful, ac- 
cording to the character of the objects on which it 
was exerted." 

"I do not quite understand you, papa." 

" If you chose to love sin, and to hate holiness 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 77 

this would be exerting the power of loving and 
hating in a sinful manner ; then you would have 
a wicked heart. But God is no more to be blam- 
ed for this, than you would be, if you gave a man 
fire to warm himself, and he should choose to 
throw himself into it, and be burnt to death." 

" Then, papa, how came my heart wicked?'' 

" Why, my dear, you chose to place your affec- 
tions upon sinful objects, instead of giving them to 
God : if you had chosen to give them to him, they 
would have been holy affections; that is, you would 
have had a holy heart." 

" Still, papa, why should I have chosen to love 
one thing more than another ? It could not have 
been merely by chance that I did not love God." 

" Very true, Maria ; the faculty of choosing is 
called the will ; now, your will, and the will of 
every human being, is depraved, or inclined to sin, 
and, therefore, chooses it in preference to holi- 
ness." 

"Well, then, papa, God must have created my 
will depraved." 

" My dear child, I do not suppose that it is pos- 
sible to explain this subject in such a way that you 
will be satisfied ; for no sinner ever was satisfied. 
It is true, that in some way, we have sinful natures, 
in consequence of our connection with Adam; our 
hearts are, from the beginning, disposed to sin, 
7* 



78 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

and our wills are opposed to God. We do not 
understand how this can be, and it is useless to try 
to comprehend it; it is enough for us to know that 
it forms no excuse for us." 

" I am sure I should think it was an excuse." 
" Well, let us see how it would apply in all. 
cases. Here is a man to be tried for a murder — 
he confesses the crime, but says to the judge, ' You 
certainly will not condemn me for what I could 
not help; it was my wicked heart which made me 
do this.' Should we not tell him that this was 
the very thing he was punished for, because he 
had a heart which disposed him to commit this 
crime? If a wicked heart is to be received as an 
excuse for sin, there ought to be no punishment in 
the world, for every body could plead that apol- 
ogy-" 

" I know that seems absurd; papa, but yet, 

somehow or other" — 

" Well, Maria, on this point I have a condition 
to make with you. Whenever you are ready to 
admit this as an excuse, in cases of injury offered 
to yourself, I will allow that it is a good one in 
your favor. So, if George should pull down your 
baby-house, or break your doll, 1 shall expect, that 
instead of being angry with him, you will say, 'O, 
poor fellow, he couldn't help it — he has such a bad 
heart.' " 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 79 

Maria could not help smiling at the absurdity of 
this ; but though her understanding and conscience 
yielded, her heart did not. She looked uneasy 
and dissatisfied. 

" I see, my dear," said her father, " that you are 
not satisfied, and I did not expect that you would 
be, because the difficulty lies not in the subject, 
but in yourself. All the arguments in the world 
will be of no use, while your heart remains the 
same. Only begin to love God, and the difficulty 
will vanish." 

" I wish I could, but my heart won't let me." 

" The same excuse again? Why, my dear, 
your heart is yourself — whereas you talk as if it 
were a something quite distinct from yourself, 
over which you had no control. To say that your 
heart wont love God, is just the same as to say, J 
won't love Him, which is your guilt, not your ex- 
cuse." 

Maria sighed — her father sighed too. She 
thought the conditions of salvation were so hard 
that they could not be complied with — he sighed 
to see how powerless is argument where the heart 
is concerned 



CHAPTER XIV. 

" Little attentions, trifling, but perpetual acts of self-denial ; a minute con- 
sultation of the wants and wishes, tastes and tempers of others ; these atw 
the small things that outweigh a thousand acts of showy heroism." 

" What if the little rain should say, 

' So small a drop as I 
Can ne'er refresh those thirsty fields — 

I'll tarry in the sky.' 

" What if a shining beam of noon 

Should in its fountain stay, 
Because its feeble light alone 

Cannot create a day ? 

" Doth not each rain-drop help to form 

The cool refreshing shower, 
And every ray of light to warm 

And beautify the flower?" 

There is nothing in which the self-deception 
of the heart is more evident, than in leading us to 
believe, that if we were placed in any other situa- 
tion than our own, we should perform its duties 
faithfully. Our Savior has declared, that it is he 
who is faithful in that which is least, who is faith- 
ful in that which is much ; but we flatter ourselves 
that we should be faithful in much, though we ac- 
knowledge that we are deficient in regard to the 
little that is intrusted to us. 

Our little friend Maria was very prone to this 
species of self-deception. Nothing pleased her 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 81 

more than to imagine situations of peculiar trial 
and difficulty, in which she supposed herself to 
conduct with the most edifying propriety. Though 
she knew that she was not as dutiful and attentive 
to her parents as she ought to have been, yet she 
flattered herself, that if she were only placed in 
circumstances where filial duties would be more 
difficult, she should perform them without fault. 

She once read an account of a young peasant 
girl, who supported her infirm parents by the 
labor of her hands, ministering to their wants with 
the most patient kindness, while she denied her- 
self the necessary quantity of food, in order to sup- 
ply them with comforts. 

Nothing could exceed Maria's enthusiasm on 
reading this story. Her father being gone out, 
she ran to find her mother to read it to her. Her 
mother was engaged in some domestic affairs, but 
Maria followed her from room to room till she was 
ready to listen to it. Then she ran in search of 
William; but he was eager to play, and would 
not stop to hear it. She then stationed herself at 
the window to watch for her father's return ; and 
when he came, she ran to him, with the exclama- 
tion, 

M 0, papa, here is the most beautiful story you 

ever read, of a poor girl who 0, papa, do read 

it ; it will not take you long." 



82 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

Her father sat down, and taking Maria on his 
lap, complied with her request. 

"Isn't it beautiful, papa?" cried she, as soon 
as he had finished. 

" Yes, my dear, it is a very beautiful instance 
of filial piety." 

" O, papa, I wish" — but Maria stopped, blushing. 

" Well, my dear, go on ; what do you wish ?" 

" I was going to say, papa, that I almost wished 
you were poor, so that I might have the pleasure 
of working for you." 

" Thank you, my dear ; I have no doubt you 
would be willing to help me; though it might, 
perhaps, be less pleasant than you think now." 

" O, no, papa; I am sure I should always love 
to do any thing for you." 

" And do you really suppose, Maria, that it 
would be so much easier to go without food, and 
work day and night, than it is to perform the light 
services which are required of you now?" 

"No, papa, it would not be easier, exactly; 
but"— 

" But there would be more glory about it." 

" Not exactly that, papa ; but I should feel as if 
I was doing something." 

" Well, are you not doing something now, 
when you take care of the baby, and help your 
mother sew ?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 83 

"But then, papa, that is such a little; and be- 
sides, you could get somebody else to do it, if I did 
not — you are not poor." 

'* As to that, my dear, you are mistaken. To 
be sure, we are not poor in the sense that Dorothea's 
parents were ; but I could not afford to hire another 
servant to take care of the children; therefore, 
you see you can do some good." 

This seemed to console Maria for a few mo- 
ments ; but then she sighed to think it was so lit- 
tle in comparison with what Dorothea did. 

" You may depend upon it, Maria," said her 
father, "that all this wishing for some other situa- 
tion, in order to show your love, is self-deception. 
You can just as well give proofs of your affection 
now as you could in any other circumstances; 
and it is perfect folly for a person, who does not 
faithfully perform his present duties, to pretend 
that he should do better in a more difficult station. 
I can tell you why it looks so easy to you now. 
We never see fully the difficulties and disagree- 
ables of any situation, till we are placed in it. 
You look at it now at a distance, and it seems 
very easy for you to make sacrifices ; but if you 
had to rise early and go to bed late, to work hard. 
to eat only black bread, and not enough of that — 
and all this day after day, and week after week — 
I suspect you would alter your mind. Suppose 



84 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

that Dorothea had been placed in your situation ; 
do you not think she would find opportunities of 
being useful ?" 

" Yes, papa, I suppose she would." 

" Yes, she would have been useful in any situ 
ation. But she had a principle of action which 
you have not. Do you remember how she encou- 
raged herself to do right ?" 

" Yes, papa; she thought of Christ all the time." 

" Yes, and looking at Him will make any thing 
easy." 

The next evening, when Maria again took her 
seat by her father, he resumed the conversation of 
the previous day. 

" Maria, there is probably another reason why 
you imagine it would be easier to do what Doro- 
thea did, than what is required of you. "W hen you 
think of her, you think of her as being loved and 
admired by all who read this account ; and this 
makes the self-denial appear less difficult. But 
you must remember that Dorothea did not suppose 
that her conduct would ever be known ; if she had, 
her merit would have been less. She labored on 
meekly and patiently, from day to day, with no 
other reward than the approbation of God and her 
own conscience. Do you think you could do this ?" 

Maria was not sure. 

" But it always seems so, papa, and I am always 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 85 

wishing I was a queen or some great lady, to see 
how much good I would do." 

" Very foolish wishes too," said her father. " So 
I suppose when you read the history of the empe- 
rors of Rome, and the kings of England, you 
amuse yourself in thinking what you should do in 
their place." 

" Yes, papa ; I am sure I should not have acted 
as that ugly Caligula, and Nero, and Domitian did." 

"Perhaps not; but you cannot be sure of that 
now." 

" Not sure of it, papa ! Could I ever take plea- 
sure in seeing people tormented ¥ } 

" Nero might have asked the same question ; for 
in his youth, before he became emperor, he did not 
exhibit any of his subsequent vices. Several of 
the most wicked of the Roman emperors were very 
good men in private life ; but as soon as they as- 
cended the throne, they began to commit all man- 
ner of wickedness." 

" What is the reason of that, papa VI 

" It is found that the possession of power gene- 
rally exerts a bad influence upon the character. It 
cherishes pride, arrogance, selfishness, and ambi- 
tion, and takes off all restraint from civil govern- 
ment. Few persons can bear such elevation. But 
we have digressed a little; should you like to hear 
a fable?" 

8 



86 THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 

" 0, yes, papa." 

" It happened once, that all the animals, beasts, 
birds, fishes, and insects, assembled to hear a ser- 
mon from one of their number ; I have not been 
informed who was the orator. The subject of the 
discourse was the duty of living to do good ; and 
the audience seemed much delighted with the num- 
ber and variety of the motives presented. As they 
went to their respective homes, after the perform- 
ance, thus they moralized to themselves. 

" Said the ant, * This sermon is a very good one 
for some folks, but it has no sort of application to 
me. What can such a poor, little, crawling thing 
as I, do for the good of the universe? Besides, I 
have so large a family of my own to provide for, 
that it requires all my time and attention. If I had 
wings like the butterfly, I would not live so useless 
a life as he does/ 

"Said the butterfly, * I am really ashamed of the 
ant, who has such stores laid up, that she does no 
more good with them. I am sure if I were half 
as rich, I would supply all the poor of the neigh- 
borhood. But when I can hardly get enough for 
myself, how can I help others.' 

" The little fish complained that he had neither 
time, nor talents, nor opportunity of doing good;- 
he was so insignificant that he had no influence; 
and moreover, he had to get food for himself, and 



THE PASTOR r S DAUGHTER. 87 

take care that he was not made food for others. If 
he were only as large and strong as the whale, he 
might be useful. 

" The sheep declared that as he had no horns to 
defend himself, it was absurd to think of his doing 
any thing for others ; he hoped his neighbor the 
goat would apply the sermon to himself 

" Thus each excused himself; and on the whole, 
the sole result of the discourse so much applauded, 
was to convince each, that himself was most "un- 
fortunate, and his neighbors without excuse." 

Maria liked the fable very much : she wished her 
papa would always tell her a story, when he wanted 
to teach her any thing ; she should remember it so 
much better. But he told her it would not be best 
that she should always have stories ; she must 
learn to attend, and remember what he said to her, 
in whatever form it was said. " And now," said 
he, " what are you going to remember as the result 
of this conversation ?" 

Maria hesitated a moment, and then said, " That 
people who do not do their duty in the situation in 
which they are, would not be likely to in another." 



CHAPTER XV. 

'It is no uncommon thing for the heart to have certain inclinations, and 
wishes, and intentions towards piety : even a vain and worldly, a hard and 
selfish heart, may attain to this; but how transient such resolutions commonly 
prove, even a short experience of the heart's deceitfulness is sufficient to tes 
tify." • 

The next thing which gave a new impulse to 
Maria's resolutions, was hearing this verse read 
in family prayers ; " Be not overcome of evil, but 
overcome evil with good." It flashed upon her 
mind, as familiar truths sometimes do, with all the 
vividness of a first impression. " I never knew 
there was such a verse in the Bible before ; it's 
exactly what I want — not to be overcome of evil, 
but to overcome evil with good. What shall I do 
to make myself remember it in the right time ?" 

Several plans occurred to her for keeping this 
verse always before her eyes, but none of them 
seemed to answer the purpose. She was obliged 
to content herself with writing it on two slips of 
paper, one of which she pasted up in a conspicu- 
ous part of her room, and the other, inside of a 
drawer in the parlor table, which was appropriat- 
ed to her especial use. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 89 

The first day after these arrangements were 
completed, and the next, no peculiar temptation 
presented itself; and though Maria could not ex- 
actly say that she had obeyed the injunction, yet 
she imagined it was because she had no opportu- 
nity of putting it in practice. On the third day 
she met with a slight temptation, which she resist- 
ed successfully. In the afternoon she was left 
with the care of her infant brother ; and as he usu- 
ally slept for an hour, she determined to employ 
this interval in making a dress for her doll. 
While she was thus employed, George came in, 
and began, in a playful way, to push her elbow, 
so as to disarrange her work, and make her prick 
her finger. Maria was about to speak in a harsh 
tone, but she fortunately recollected herself, and 
refrained. She found a picture-book for the little 
boy, and resumed her work. But while the table 
and chairs were strewed with pieces of silk and 
cotton, moreover, just as the frock was nearly 
completed, and she was anticipating the pleasure 
of trying it on, the baby stirred, and began to cry. 
Maria rocked faster, and sang, " Hu?h, my dear," 
with all her might, but in vain ; the harder she 
rocked, the louder the baby screamed, and it was 
evident that he must be taken up. 

"How provoking!" she exclaimed; "he al- 
ways sleeps an hour, if not an hour and a half, 



90 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, 

when mamma is at home; and now, just because I 
wanted to do this, he must needs wake up. I de- 
clare I will never try to do any thing again, for 
it's of no use." 

She lifted the child from the cradle in no very 
gentle mood, and for a moment, determined to take 
no pains to divert him ; but she really loved her 
little brother, and could not bear to hear his cries. 
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in car- 
rying him about in her arms, singing, " Rock-a-by 
baby upon the tree-top;" and similar ditties, rat- 
tling a bunch of keys against the tongs, twirling a 
cent on the table, &c. &c. With these expedients 
she was able to divert the child until her mother 
returned, when she had quite recovered from her 
ill-humor, though she felt some disappointment at 
leaving her work unfinished. At the close of the 
day, however, she was more than 'repaid for the 
sacrifice, by the sweet sense of self-approval which 
accompanied the remembrance of it. 

She was not permitted to enjoy this satisfaction 
the next day. As she was passing through the 
kitchen on an errand for her mother, her brother 
William placed himself against the door, and told 
her she should not open it. 

11 William, mamma wants me; so let me through, 
quick," said Maria, with more asperity than was 
necessary. As he did not move, she repeated her 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 91 

request in a still more peremptory tone, and find- 
ing this of no avail, she gave her brother a violent 
push, which he returned. A struggle ensued, 
which ended in Maria's obtaining the victory. 
She entered the parlor with a face flushed with 
anger. 

44 What is the matter ?" said her mother. 

" Our William is the very worst boy that ever 
was," burst out Maria ; " he set himself against 
the door so that I could not get through, and he 
would not move an inch, though I told him you 
wanted me." 

" That was certainly wrong ; but I am sorry it 
has made you lose your temper, Maria." 

44 I don't know who wouldn't lose their temper, 
to be teazed so from morning till night." 

" My child, is that true ? Because you meet 
with occasional vexations, is it right to say that 
you are teased ' from morning till night V " 

44 William never does any thing wrong," was 
the improper reply, for which Maria was again 
sent to the solitude of her own room. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

" We must have had small experience in life, and less in religion, if w© do 
not know how very difficult it is, with every motive and inclination to the 
work, to subdue one evil propensity." 

Maria was in the habit of reading many of the 
juvenile books, of which the design is, to convey 
moral or religious instruction, in the form of stories. 
She was passionately fond of this kind of reading, 
and, had she not been prevented, she would have 
devoted all her time to it. The works of Miss 
Edgeworth especially fascinated her ; and she read 
them again and again with fresh pleasure. 

In some of these books, the child who was the 
subject of the story, was represented as having 
some one prominent fault, such as carelessness, 
.peevishness, or obstinacy. The fault is noticed by 
a parent or some other friend, the child is reproved 
for it, and after a few trials, it is corrected. The 
child has thus overcome by its own unaided efforts, 
and becomes, at once, amiable and happy. In 
others, the parent informs his child that it is ne- 
cessary to seek Divine assistance, and that God is 
ready to grant it. The child prays once or twice, 
and success follows. In very few, was the total 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 93 

depravity of the heart, and the necessity of the re- 
generating influence of the Spirit, fully recognized. 

So long as Maria read merely for amusement 
and without reflection, she derived nothing but 
pleasure from the reading of such books. And 
they were, in some sense, useful to her, as they 
always excited her to renew her efforts for im- 
provement. But after she had begun to reflect on 
her own moral character, and to compare it with 
that of the little girls whose history she read, this 
pleasure was much diminished. She was puzzled 
to know how they were able, with so much ease, 
to accomplish that which she had found impossible. 
One day, after she had been reading the story of 
" The Black Velvet Bracelet," her thoughts were 
something to this effect. " All these little girls that 
I read about, seem to be good and amiable in gen- 
eral. Each of them has some fault, to be sure, but 
it is not a very bad one, and when it is overcome 
she is perfect, and every body loves and praises her. . 
Instead of this, papa tells me, and it is true, that I 
have a great many faults; I am often selfish, and 
proud, and disobliging ; and instead of finding it 
easy to become perfect, I cannot overcome even 
one of them. I wonder whether it is because I 
am worse than any body else." 

It was after the books were read that Maria made 
such reflections as these ; for while reading, she 



94 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

in some sort identified herself with the heroine of 
her story, and appropriated to herself all the good 
qualities which she possessed. Thus she felt as 
much self-complacency, as if she had herself per- 
formed all the praiseworthy actions of which she 
read. This is, doubtless, usually the case with 
readers of imagination, and is probably one source 
of the pleasure found in reading novels, where 
noble and excellent characters are portrayed. 

The subsequent feelings of vexation and disap- 
pointment, occasioned by such reflections as those 
above mentioned, must not be mistaken for humil- 
ity. Persons who are ready to acknowledge to 
themselves their inferiority to others, would often 
be exceedingly displeased at hearing the same 
truth from a friend. Thus it was with Maria; and 
the more conscious she became of her own faults, , 
the less willing she was to hear of them from others. 
This consciousness, when she was older, often 
made her reserved, unsocial, and morose ; still, it 
did not humble her. There is scarcely anything 
that has so powerful a tendency to render a person 
unamiable and irritable in temper, as a sense of 
deficiency, where it does not produce real humility. 
A great deal of what is called amiability and sweet- 
ness of temper, is nothing more than self-compla- 
cency ; for it is very easy to be pleased with others, 
when we are pleased with ourselves. Would it 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 95 

not be well for some, who consider themselves, and 
are considered by others, amiable, to inquire whe- 
ther they can receive reproof meekly, or bear rid- 
icule with a good grace? This is the true test of 
that " meek and quiet spirit/'' which is in the sight 
of God " an ornament of great price." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

" To travel bare-foot to some hallowed shrine, 

If this would do, how soon should heaven be mine." 

Maria's birth-day occurred soon after this, ana 
her mother presented her with " The Infant's 
Progress," by Mrs. Sherwood. She had read the 
Pilgrim's Progress repeatedly, with great delight; 
but this pleased her still more, because she could 
understand it better, and because it related to 
children. 

" Well, Maria, which of the children do you 
like best ?" said her father. 

" O, papa, I like Peace best, and Humble-Mind 
next best. Papa, I wish it was as easy to — to — I 
mean, I wish we had to go a journey, as they did, 
or something like that, in order to be saved." 

"Why, dear?" 

" Because, if God had told us to do something 
like that, we could have done it ; if it had been 
ever so hard, we could have forced ourselves to do 
it ; but, somehow or other, it seems as if we had 
not so much control over our minds as over our 
bodies. I cannot force myself to repent, or to love 
God." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 97 

" Certainly not, Maria ; repentance and love 
are always voluntary." 

" Then how are we to blame, papa?" 

14 In the same way that you are to blame when 
you commit a fault against me, and are not sorry 
for it. Now, just suppose, Maria, that you had 
displeased and grieved me exceedingly, and yet 
refused to confess your fault. Suppose, that when 
I endeavored to show you that you had done 
wrong, and refused to pardon you until you should 
express sorrow, you should say, ' It is not my 
fault that I can't be sorry ; I have tried as hard as 
I can, but I can't force myself to feel sorry.' What 
should you think of such language? Would it 
be any excuse ?" 

" No, papa." 

" What should I probably say to you in reply?" 

" I suppose, papa, you would tell me that I 
ought to be sorry without trying." 

" Just so, my dear ; and I tell you the same 
now. You cannot force your heart to love God 
and to repent, you say ; but you are required to do 
so voluntarily, without forcing." 

" Papa, there is something I want to say, but I 
don't know how." 

" Try, at least." 

" Well, papa, it seems to me that God has made 
us so that we naturally love some things, and hate 
9 



98 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

others. When we see or hear of any body that 
is wicked, we cannot help hating them ; and we 
\ove good people without trying." 

" Very true : but what has this to do with your 
excuse?" 

" Why, papa, then it seems to me that God has 
no right to control our affections. If he has made 
us so that we naturally love some things, it is of 
no use to require us to love other things ; for we 
cannot do it, if we try ever so hard." 

" What sort of things, or characters, cannot we 
iove, Maria?" 

" Why, papa, you know — any thing that is bad." 

" Your objection, then, would be a very good 
one, if God had required us to love a wicked 
being; but as he has not, I do not see how it will 
help you. If God had required us to approve and 
love the character of Nero, for instance, it would 
have been an unjust and tyrannical command, and 
we could not have obeyed it. But he only re- 
quires us to love the same qualities in Him, which 
we love naturally, as you say, in other beings. 
When you see a man who is generous, or benevo- 
tent, or forgiving, you admire and love those 
qualities — why should you not admire and love 
them in God?" 

Maria reflected for some time. 

" Papa, I think — it seems — papa, I am almost 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 99 

afraid to say what I think ; but if my mind is made 
so as to love certain qualities, and if I always do 
admire them in my fellow-creatures, why should 
I not love them in God, if — if " — 

11 1 understand you, Maria — if they exist in him. 
You have asked an important question, but one 
which I think I shall be able to answer satisfacto- 
rily — but not to-night — it is too late. I hope, my 
dear child, you will remember, that while you are 
making all these objections, the commands of God 
remain the same. He still says to you, every 
moment, ' Give me thine heart ;' and every mo- 
ment that you do not, you are trampling on his 
commands." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

c, It will be painful to think of his holiness, justice, and truth ; for these 
perfections make it necessary that he should punish us for our sins." 

" I will now, Maria, answer the question you 
asked last evening. I believe you wished to know 
why, if we are so constituted as to love goodness, 
we should not love God without effort?" 

" Yes, papa." 

"Well, to make the case plainer, suppose that 
you read or hear of a king of England, for exam- 
ple, who is perfectly just ; who treats all his sub- 
jects with exact impartiality, always punishing the 
guilty, and rewarding the virtuous; you would pro 
bably approve and admire this character." 

" Yes, papa." 

" But suppose you become a subject of this king, 
and are convicted of high treason. The same jus- 
tice and impartiality which you before admired, 
lead the king to condemn you to death, and you are 
led forth to execution. Would these traits of his 
character appear equally lovely now?" 

" I suspect not, papa." 

"And yet, the character of the king would have 
undergone no change. He would still be excel- 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 101 

lent and lovely, and would appear so in the eyes 
of all his obedient subjects. Only traitors and 
rebels would be opposed to him, and their selfish- 
ness would lead to this, while their moral estimate 
of right and wrong remained unaltered." 

" That is very plain, papa." 

" Well, dear, this describes your case in relation 
to God. You and other sinners would have no 
objection to the holiness and justice of God, if he 
were not your sovereign, or if you had not trans- 
gressed his law. But as soon as you perceive that 
his holiness makes him hate sin, and his justice and 
truth lead him to punish the sinner, then you be- 
gin to hate these perfections. Your excuse, then, 
is what constitutes your guilt. It is the very thing 
we complain of, that the same qualities which you 
would approve in a fellow-creature, only excite 
your hatred, when they are exhibited in the char- 
acter of God." 

This was so convincing that Maria knew not 
what to reply. After some minutes' silence she said, 

" Papa, kings have power to pardon, haven't 
they r 

" Yes." 

14 Well, papa, suppose there had been another 

traitor condemned to the same punishment with 

me, and who liked the king as little as I did. If 

the king should pardon him, I suppose he would 

9* 



102 THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 

like him again ; but I do not see as he would be 
any better than I, for before he was pardoned he 
felt just the same." 

M Very true, my dear ; he would be no better." 

" Well, then, papa, I do not see why Christians 
are any better than sinners ; they love God because 
they expect to be saved ; and if I knew I should be 
saved, I suppose I should love him too." 

" If Christians did, indeed, love God merely be- 
cause they believed he had pardoned them, there 
would certainly be no goodness in it According 
to this, it would only be necessary to persuade a 
man that God loved him, and intended to save him, 
and he would begin to love God ; in other words, 
you must make him believe that he is a Christian, 
and then he will become one." 

" How is it then, papa, that persons begin to love 
God ? Is it before they know that He loves them ?" 

" Yes ; ask any Christian you please, and he will 
tell you that he began to love the Lord because he 
could not help it; because he saw His glory and 
loveliness; not because he believed that He would 
save him. Indeed, a person scarcely thinks of 
himself, whether he shall be saved or not, when he 
sees, for the first time, the true character of God, 
and contemplates it with wonder and love unutter- 
able. If he does think of himself as condemned, 
he yet approves the sentence, justifies God in all 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 103 

his dealings, and feels that, though he should be 
left to perish, .God would still be holy, and just, 
and good." 

" That is what I cannot understand, papa." 

" To go back to our illustrations ; suppose that 
when you were condemned to death, you had begun 
to reflect on your conduct and to see its guilt. You 
say to yourself, * The king is a wise and fond 
king, and his law is a just one. I have been 
guilty, I deserve to die ; I have no excuse to plead, 
and it is right that he should condemn me.' If now 
a message of pardon should be brought to you, the 
feelings which it would excite in you, would not 
be merely selfish gratitude and love for this favor, 
for you loved the king before, when you thought 
he was going to punish you. It is possible to have 
such feelings, is it not V 

" Yes, papa." 

" Then your question is answered. This is the 
way you should feel towards God." 



_ 



CHAPTER XIX. 

" Happiness is nothing but that inward, sweet: delight that will arise from 
he harmonious agreement between our wills and God's will." 

When Maria was nine years old, she was at- 
tacked with a fever which continued for several 
weeks, and for some time it was doubtful whether 
she would recover. When she began to get bet- 
ter, she found it extremely difficult to exercise the 
patience and submission required of her. If she 
could only be allowed to read, she said, it would not 
be so bad ; but to lie still all day, with no amusement, 
and then have disagreeable medicine to take — it 
was too bad. When returning health restored her 
appetite, it was still worse. She could be allowed 
but very little food at a time, and she had nothing 
to do when she was not eating, but attend to her 
uncomfortable sensations, and wish for what could 
not be granted. Her mother often reminded her 
how much she still had to be grateful for, since 
her life and reason were spared, and she was sur 
rounded by kind friends, while many others suf- 
fered far more than she did, w 7 ith none of her com- 
forts. These reflections silenced Maria for the 
moment, but the next, it was, "Mamma, do let me 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 105 

read a little while — I am tired to death;" or, 
" Mamma, mayn't I have a roasted apple ? I am 
almost starved." 

Maria never uttered any of these murmurs in 
her father's presence, but he came into her room 
one day, and found her alone, and crying, for her 
mother had been called down to receive some 
visiters. 

" What is the matter, my dear?" said he, kindly. 

Maria looked a little ashamed, and did not reply. 

" I suppose you find it tedious to stay here so 
long, don't you, dear?" 

" Yes, papa," said she, beginning to cry again, 
" I haven't any thing to do, and I am tired almost 
to death." 

" I know it is hard, dear — I have found it so 
myself — to be patient and gentle, when we feel so 
uncomfortable; but although it is hard, I do not 
think it is impossible. I will tell you an anec- 
dote. A gentleman once gave his negro-servant 
the rind of a very bitter and nauseous melon, and 
directed him to eat it. The servant obeyed with- 
out one murmur, or a single wry face. A gentle- 
man present asked him how he could possibly eat 
any thing so disagreeable. He replied, * I have 
received many good things from my master's hand, 
and it would be hard indeed, if I could not take 
one bitter morsel.' 



106 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

M Now, my dear child, if you could feel so, 
would it not make your trials a great deal easier 
to bear? Suppose you should think, It is my 
Heavenly Father who has sent this sickness, for 
wise and good reasons; he will be pleased if I 
bear it patiently; he has given me many mercies, 
and shall I not bear one affliction? Would it not 
seem easy then ?" 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, her eyes filling with 
tears, " but you know I cannot feel so." 

"Why, my dear?" 

" Because I am not a Christian." 

"But why can you not become a Christian 
now % Why not let these feelings of submission 
to God, be your first right feelings ?" 

Maria did not reply, but having kissed her fa- 
ther, she lay down again, and tried to compose 
herself to sleep. From the commencement of her 
illness, she had evinced an unusual disinclination 
to religious subjects. When she was quite recov- . 
ered, her father asked her if she had not often 
been conscious, during her sickness, that her will 
was opposed to the will of God. 

" Would you not have cured yourself if you 
could have done so, in spite of God V 

Maria was obliged to reply in the affirmative. 

" Then, my dear, you have a new proof that you 
never can be happy with your present disposition. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 107 

Suppose two persons live together, one of whom is 
much stronger than the other, and always does 
what he pleases, while the other is obliged to sub- 
mit. What would be necessary in order to make 
this weaker one happy V 1 

" I shouldn't think he could be happy, papa, any 
way." 

11 Yes, there is one case in which he might be 
so; provided his will always coincided with the 
will of his superior. Mind, I don't say if he were 
forced to appear to desire the same things, but if 
he really did desire the same things, then he 
might be happy, might he not?" 

" Yes, papa." 

" But if his will were opposed to that of his su- 
perior, he would be constantly miserable. Now 
this is your case in regard to God. He is power- 
ful enough to do what he pleases, and he will al- 
ways do what he pleases, with you and every 
body else. So long as your will is opposed to his, 
it must make you very unhappy to be thus in ms 
power ; but if your dispositions and desires were 
changed so as to coincide with his, you would be 
perfectly happy." 

This was plain enough, but Maria did not want 
to be made happy in such a way. No reflection 
was so disagreeable to her as that she was com- 
pletely in God's power; and as she went on think- 



108 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

ing, various absurd, impious, and impossible pro- 
jects occurred to her for escaping from his hands. 
What if God should forget or overlook her, or she 
could hide herself from him in some remote cor 
ner of the universe, or what if there were no God, 
after all, or another God stronger than he, and 
able to control him. The reader need not be 
startled ; it is not profound reasoning and daring 
speculation that make men infidels; it is the 
heart; and the youngest child, whose moral char- 
acter is developed, is not too young to say in his 
heart, " No God." 

When Maria, on reflection, perceived the utter 
futility of her projects, she was very unhappy; 
but all this time she never thought of following 
her father's advice, and bending her will to that of 
her Maker. On the contrary, she began to search 
about for some ground of cavilling. 

"Papa," said she, "wouldn't it be very selfish 
for a man to take advantage of his being the 
strongest, to make another do just what he pleased ?" 

" In the case of two men, and if the stronger 
disregarded the happiness of the other, it certainly 
would; but there are two things to be observed 
about God. In the first place, his happiness is 
infinitely more important than that 01 all creatu r es 
united ; and it is right in him to seek first his own 
happiness." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 109 

" Papa, that is just what I thought selfishness 
meant." 

" No, my dear, you confound selfishness with 
self-love. Christ does not require us not to love 
ourselves, but to love others as ourselves ; there- 
fore, self-love within these limits is a duty. And 
the reason why we should love others as ourselves 
is, that the happiness of all men is equally impor- 
tant. But if an archangel should come to reside 
in this world, his happiness would be more im- 
portant than that of any man, because his capacity 
for happiness or misery would be greater. Don't 
you see this?" 

" Yes, papa." 

M Well, then, it would be the duty of the men 
with whom he associated to consult his happiness 
in preference to their own ; in other words, to love 
him better than themselves. And it would not be 
selfish in him to regard his own happiness as more 
important than theirs. Now, as God's capacity 
for happiness is infinitely greater than that of ail 
creatures, it is not selfishness in him to love him- 
self better than all creatures ; I mean, with a be- 
nevolent love ; and as he is infinitely more excel- 
lent than all creatures, it is right that he should 
feel more complacency in his own character than 
in theirs. Now have I answered your objection ?" 
10 



110 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, papa, it is plain enough, only I always 
thought that self-love was the same as selfishness, 
and that in order to be perfect we ought not to 
love ourselves at all." 

" That is where you were wrong, my dear. 

"But, although it would be right for God to 
consult his own happiness in preference to that of 
his creatures, if the two were at variance, yet 
this is not the case. God, as a benevolent being, 
finds his happiness in causing happiness. He 
loves to do good and to bless ; and this is why he 
bears with sinners so long, and invites them so 
urgently to be happy." 

" Papa, if he blesses us because he loves to, be- 
cause it makes him happy, I don't see that we are 
under any obligation to him." 

" Then, if he did not bless you cheerfully and 
gladly, if he were forced to do it, and did it reluc- 
tantly, you would be under more obligation to him 
than now. This is a strange doctrine, and if it 
be true, men are under a strange mistake; for 
they generally feel most grateful for favors which 
are prompted by mere benevolence, without com- 
pulsion." 

" Yes, papa ; — I do not know exactly what 1 
meant ; but I was thinking" — 

" Well, my dear, I advise you not to have any 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. Ill 

more such thoughts ; for, in the first place, they 
will only puzzle you for nothing, and in the next, 
they are very bad thoughts. But we have talked 
enough for the present." 



CHAPTER XX 

"And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the 
mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord was 
not in the wind ; and after the wind an earthquake ; but the Lord was not 
the earthquake ; and after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was not 
the fire." 

"And in the time of his distress he sinned yet more against the Lord." 

"Maria," said her father, a few days after, 
" you have always had a secret idea, that if you 
were brought into any circumstances of danger, 
you could repent. Now, I wish you to tell me 
whether you felt any more disposed to repent when 
you were sick, than before ?" 

" No, papa, I could not think or feel any thing 
then." 

u No, you could not, even at first ; and when 
you became worse, you were hardly sensible of 
any thing. You see then how false and unfound- 
ed is the expectation of repenting on a death-bed. 
When the body is racked with pain, and the mind 
enfeebled by disease, is surely not a time to per- 
form the labor of a life." 

" Papa, don't you think people often are con- 
verted on a death-bed?" 

" No, my dear, not often. There is great rea- 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 113 

son to feai Aat most of these apparent conversions 
are not real. I have known many instances in 
which persons who appeared to be Christians 
when they were dangerously sick, on recovering, 
lost all their seriousness." 

" It seems, at any rate, papa, that there is some- 
thing in sickness which makes a person willing 
to attend to religion, or else there would not be 
apparent conversions." 

" Yes, the fear of death of course excites alarm ; 
but this is nothing to the purpose. You have been 
attending to religion, in this way, all your life — 
that is, the Holy Spirit has been striving with you 
all this time, yet your heart is not changed. Be- 
sides, repentance is genuine sorrow for sin, pro- 
duced by a sense of its baseness and deformity: 
and how can fear excite such views and feelings? 
Fear may produce external reformation, and pre- 
tended repentance, but this is all ; and fear is the 
only motive to repentance whose force is increased 
on a death-bed." 

" I don't see then, papa, why ministers try to 
alarm people in their preaching, nor why it should 
be said that God sends afflictions to convert people." 

" Because if you can alarm a person for his 
safety, he will of course reflect on his situation, 
and there is more hope that by the blessing of 
God he may be led to genuine repentance. I did 



10 



* 



114 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

not say that fear is never the occasion, or that it 
may not be, in God's hands, the instrument ol 
good; but that punishment or fear of punishment 
has no efficacy in itself, without the Spirit of God. 
And if you are as dependant on his influences in 
sickness as in health, of course there is no more 
reason to believe you will repent then, than now." 

Although this reasoning was perfectly convinc- 
ing, and Maria could not help seeing that it was 
so, yet as her secret hope of a future repentance 
was not founded on argument, neither could it be 
destroyed by it ; and she still clung to the hope, 
though somewhat less firmly than before. 

" If you are not yet convinced," said her father, 
"let us refer to some instances from the Bible. 
There was Pharaoh, for example; he had not only 
witnessed, but felt, the most terrible effects of di- 
vine vengeance, and was solemnly warned that if 
he persisted in his rebellion, still more awful judg- 
ments awaited him ; yet he persisted notwithstand- 
ing. The Israelites too, who witnessed these 
same judgments, were not deterred by them from 
littering their rebellious and ungrateful murmurs 
at the Red Sea. Nay, after this, when they had 
felt the wrath of God in the pestilence and in the 
fiery serpents — when they had seen some of their 
number swallowed up in the earth, and others 
consumed by fire from heaven — when a whole 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 115 

generation of them had died in the wilderness, not 
having seen the promised land ; the survivers 
were just as rebellious and ungrateful as before." . 

" I always thought, papa, that the Israelites 
were the most foolish, ungrateful people, I ever 
heard of. It almost seemed as if they wished to 
provoke God to punish them." 

" If we should trace their history down to the 
present time, we should find still farther proof that 
judgments alone avail nothing to produce repent- 
ance ; and so with the history of any other nation. 
I suppose you would expect that in a time of pes- 
tilence, or any other public calamity, people would 
be more moral, if not more religious, than at other 
times." 

" Yes, papa." 

" Well, now it is universally known that the 
reverse of this is true. A writer, describing the 
plague in Athens, says : — 

" ' The worst effects of the calamity were un- 
bounded licentiousness, and desperate thoughtless- 
ness. Men said in their hearts, Let us eat and 
drink, for to-morrow we die. Their affections 
were blunted, and their natures brutalized, by tu- 
multuous revelry, when all perished around them, 
and when the riches they squandered, were de- 
rived from the recent death of those most dear to 
them. No fear of God or of the laws deterred 



116 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

them from crimes that promised immediate plea- 
sures.' 

" Another writer, describing the plague in Lon- 
don, says that 'mothers, when they saw the plague 
spot on their children, plucked them from their 
breasts, and cast them out to perish.' " 

" O, horrible! papa, 1 can hardly believe it; and 
I cannot at all understand why such effects should 
have been produced." 

"Because fear alone, that is, despair, leads to 
utter recklessness of every thing. Where there is 
nothing to hope, there is nothing to dread ; and 
the language of such men is, ' There is no hope, 
but we will walk after our own devices, and we 
will every one do the imagination of his evil 
heart.' I have seen men, Maria, suffer every con- 
ceivable affliction, the loss of friends, of property, 
of health, of all — and their hearts only seemed to 
become harder and harder. And now, my child, 
attend to what I say; neither mercies, nor judg- 
ments, nor warnings, nor sermons, nor the Bible 
itself, will ever change your heart. You, your- 
self, must submit to God ; and this you will never 
do till his Spirit makes you willing." 



CHAPTER XXI. 

"Thou thoughtest I was altogether such an one as thyself." 

M But God commendeth his love towards us, in that, while we were yet 
sinners, Christ died for us." 

" Papa," said Maria, one day, " what strange 
gods the Greeks had; they seemed to be just like 
men." 

" They were like very wicked men. But where 
did you learn any thing about them?" 

" O papa, the other day at Mrs. C's I found a 
volume of Homer's Iliad, and I read a good deal 
of it." 

" Well, how did you like their gods ?" 

" Not at all, papa ; they didn't seem to have any 
idea of justice at all ; one would take sides with 
one party, and another with the opposite ; and then 
they would quarrel, and try to cheat each other; 
and they ate and drank too; I don't see but they 
were just like men, only stronger." 

" Yes, such a heaven as theirs would be a per- 
fect hell, for all sorts of evil passions were at work 
there. It is said that the character of a people 
may be determined by the character of their gods." 

" Is it ? Do you think that is true, papa ?" 



118 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, in general it is. In those parts of the 
world which are destitute of the Bible, men ima- 
gine gods like themselves ; subject to the same in- 
firmities and passions as mortals, and superior to 
them only in strength and cunning. You know, 
that among barbarous nations, courage, strength, 
and skill in war, are the qualities most highly- 
prized, and even cruelty and ferocity are applauded. 
Of course, their gods are all warlike, and are cele- 
brated only for their victories. The negroes of 
Congo, it is said, imagine their deity to be black." 

" Do they ? A black god — how strange. Then 
I suppose they think black people are handsomer 
than white ones ?" 

" Yes, all negro nations think so." 

" But papa, do you suppose that if we had never 
seen the Bible, we should imagine God to be like 
ourselves ?" 

" Certainly we should. And not only so, many 
people who have seen the Bible, and read it all 
their lives, do now imagine God to be like them- 
selves." 

" O, papa, what, any born in this country think 
God is like a man ?" 

" Not in every respect : nobody here supposes 
that God has a body, and eats, and drinks, and sleeps 
like a man, or that he is not infinitely superior to 
men in wisdom and power It is in his moral at* 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 119 

tributes, which constitute his greatest glory, that 
they think God resembles them." 

Maria reflected a moment. 

" Well, papa, I can't find out what you mean. I 
am not conscious of ever having thought God was 
like me." V 

11 1 think I shall convince you, that you and all 
other sinners are guilty of this error ; only remem- 
ber, I do not say that you have ever had this thought 
distinctly pass through your mind, * God is like 
me,' or any such thing. I mean to say, that you 
act in such a manner as to show that you take it 
for granted that God would feel and act pretty much 
as you would do, in similar circumstances." 

11 O, papa, you can prove any thing if you set 
out in that way." 

11 Set out in that way ? What way can be more 
reasonable % It is the way we always use in judg- 
ing of another person's opinions and belief. If a 
man were told that his house was on fire, and 
should use no means to preserve it, we should con- 
clude that he did not believe the information, or 
that he wished his house to burn down. And this 
conclusion would be as infallibly certain, as if we 
could look into the man's heart and see. Don't 
you see that it would be so?" 

" Yes, papa, I suppose it would." 

11 Well, let us go on to the proof. You know 



120 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

that men are mutable in their opinions and feelings. 
Their opinions of the characters of others are 
continually changing. One hour they admire, the 
next they condemn ; they are easily irritated, and 
as easily appeased. Now men evidently suppose 
that God resembles them in this respect, and that 
his feelings towards them vary with every varia- 
tion in their conduct. When they are pleased with 
themselves, they imagine that he is pleased with 
them ; and when conscience accuses them of hav- 
ing neglected their duty, they suppose that he 
frowns upon them." 

" But is it not so, papa ?" said, Maria, surprised. 
" Does God regard us with the same feelings when 
our characters are changed?" 

" Not when our characters are changed, i. e., 
when, from being sinful, we become holy. It is 
a necessary consequence of God's immutability 
that he should then regard us with complacency, 
though he had before viewed us with displeasure. 
But I refer to those occasional and temporary 
changes which often take place in a man's con- 
duct and feelings. You, for instance, are some- 
times amiable and obliging, at other times you are 
vexed and discontented. Now have you not sup- 
posed that God regarded you with different feelings 
at these different times ?" 

" Yes, papa, certainly." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 121 

" Well, my dear, you are entirely mistaken. 
You are no nearer to holiness at one time than 
the other; and moreover, as God sees your heart, 
he does not need to wait for the successive devel- 
opments of your character; he sees at once all that 
you have done, and all that you will do, and all 
that you would do in any other circumstances. 
Of course, his opinion of you, if I may so speak, 
never changes." 

" Yes, I see, papa, but it seems very strange." 

" That only shows how accustomed you have 
become to wrong thoughts of God. Again, when 
men are in a passion, they often utter threats which 
they have no intention of executing, or, if they in- 
tend it for the moment, the intention subsides with 
the passion. So they conclude that God does the 
same: and that when he threatens them with eter- 
nal misery, he does not mean as he says, but only 
intends to frighten them; or if he did mean it, he 
will relent, when he sees how many there are to 
perish, and will save them. Don't you think this 
is true, Maria?" 

" Yes, papa, I think people have such feelings, 
though they don't have the thoughts." 

" Well, there is another thing. When we feel 
displeased, we always show it immediately ; there- 
fore we expect God to do the same. If, then, he 
looks on in silence, and sees men transgress his 
11 



122 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

law without manifesting his displeasure, they 
immediately conclude that he is not displeased. 
Many men thus encourage themselves in sin, and 
imagine that because they never have felt God's 
vengeance, they never shall. So the Jews did, as 
God tells them: * These things hast thou done, and 
I kept silence ; thou thoughtest that I was alto- 
gether such an one as thyself. ; " 

" I never knew what that verse meant before." 

" You know, too, we often make virtues compen- 
sate for defects, both in ourselves and others ; that 
is, we set off our good qualities. against our bad 
ones, and excuse the former by the latter. In this, 
too, we suppose that God resembles us, and there- 
fore we hope to bribe him to overlook our faults, by 
our imaginary virtues. We acknowledge that we 
do some things wrong, to be sure; we get angry 
now and then, perhaps, and we love ourselves su- 
premely ; but we do not steal, nor lie, nor swear ; 
so, in consideration of these virtues, we must be par- 
doned the other sins. But God requires perfect obe- 
dience, and it will not do to plead exemption from 
one fault as an excuse for another. Well, have I 
not proved that men make God like themselves ?" 

"Yes, papa." 

"And now I will tell you how you may find out 
what your own character is — by seeing what 
kind of God you would like. If you would like 



THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 123 

a God holy, just, and pure, like the God of the 
Bible, then you love holiness and purity, and shall 
possess it. But if you would prefer a God who 
would indulge you in sin. let you live as you 
please, and then take you to heaven: a God with- 
out justice or truth, then you have no love of ho- 
liness, but are a slave of sin." 

" Papa, it does not seem to me that I should like 
such gods as the Greeks had — but yet, I cannot see 
why God would not be just as glorious, if he were 
more merciful." 

"More merciful, Maria? what would you have? 
Can he be more than infinitely merciful ? He is 
love, all kve — can he be more? No, my dear 
child : w T bat you want is, not that he should be 
more merciful, but less just ; in fact, that he should 
be like some weak, foolish parents you have seen, 
who love their children too icell to restrain them, 
and so let them do as they please, and go on to 
ruin. Or you would like to have him act as a 
king would do, who should treat all his subjects 
alike: traitors, robbers, murderers — no matter 
what, all must be treated alike, while his faithful 
subjects would be in constant dread of losing their 
property and lives. Under such a king, traitors and 
rebels would be the best off, for they only would 
be safe, while the good would become their prey. 
This is what you would like, is it?" 



124 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" O, no, papa." 

" Why, that would be just the result of saving 
you without repentance. If God admitted one 
sinner to heaven, he must admit all ; and then 
heaven would become hell. Happiness would be 
banished from the universe: and while sinners 
would still be as miserable as they now will be, 
their only consolation would be that of destroying 
the happiness of the righteous — if, indeed, we can 
suppose righteousness to exist any where, after 
God had ceased to be holy. My dear Maria, God 
cannot — I say he cannot save you without repent- 
ance. If he loved you as much as he loves his 
own Son, he could not; for did he save that own 
Son when he stood in the sinner's place ? If you 
have any, the least hope, that God will relent and 
admit you to heaven with a sinful heart, look at 
the cross of Christ and despair." 

" Papa, would not Christians like to be saved 
without repentance, if they could?" 

" So far from it, that they would not think it any 
favor at all to be saved, in your sense of the word, 
that is, to be admitted to heaven with sinful hearts. 
The very thing for which they desire heaven, the 
very thing which makes it heaven, in their esti- 
mation, is, that no sin shall find admittance there. 
And even when a Christian doubts whether he 
ever has repented, and whether he may not be still 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 125 

exposed to endless punishment, he would not, for 
the universe, be saved from punishment at the ex- 
pense of God's truth and holiness. No, his lan- 
guage is, ■ Let God be holy, just, and true, what- 
ever becomes of me.' " 

This appeared very strange to Maria. She 
could not understand why any person should care 
whether God were holy or not, provided himself 
were only safe. 

" I believe, Maria," her father continued, " I 
once related to you a story of a lawgiver, who had 
decreed that a certain offence should be punished 
by putting out the eyes of the offender. His own 
son was the first criminal ; and the father put out 
one of his own eyes, and one of his son's. What 
do you think of his conduct ?" 

" O, papa, I admire him very much — I remem- 
ber the story." 

" Suppose that he had simply pardoned his son, 
without inflicting punishment on any one — would 
you not have admired him as much then ?" 

" No, indeed, papa ; there would have been no- 
thing to admire, then." 

11 Nothing to admire! why, he would have been 
]*ust such a sort of person as you like; it would 
have shown that he loved his son too well to punish 
him." 

11* 



126 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

Maria looked confused, and did not seem to 
know what to say. 

" You see that what you admired in this man, 
was not simply his love for his son, which prompt- 
ed him to wish to pardon him ; for then you would 
have admired him as much in the second case 
which I supposed. It was the union of inflexible 
justice with parental tenderness, which awakened 
your admiration. Now just tell me why you 
should not admire the same attributes in God?' 1 

Maria could not tell. 

" Besides, God has given a much greater proof 
of love to sinners than this father did to his son, 
even setting aside the infinite disparity between 
the Creator and his creatures. The father only 
took half of his son's punishment, and you love 
and reverence him for that — but God takes all our 
punishment, and offers to pardon us freely, and 
then you wish that he were a little more merciful. 
O, I don't know which is most wonderful — such 
infinite, amazing goodness on his part, or such 
horrid, abominable ingratitude on ours." 

Her father left the room hastily, as if overcome 
by his feelings; and Maria sat, thinking over the 
conversation, with a mixed feeling of shame and 
half-repentance on the one hand, and of pride and 
reluctance to submit, on the other. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

' Another thing was, that I could not find out what faith was, or what it 
was to believe and come to Christ. I thought I would gladly come if I knew 
how, though the path were never so difficult. " 

" Papa," said Maria, after listening to a sermon, 
in which immediate faith and repentance were 
urged upon sinners, " it seems to me, that if I only 
knew what I must do, and how to do it, I would. 
But, papa, when you talk about going to Christ, 
how can I tell what it means, because it is not lit- 
erally going to him?" 

" When we use this expression, my dear, we 
mean the same act, as when we say loving Christ, 
or believing in him, or trusting him ; they all refer 
to the same thing. You know that it is the nature 
of affection to desire to be nea» its objects ; and 
aversion, on the contrary, prompts us to withdraw 
to a distance. So, if a person is cordially recon- 
ciled to one with whom he has been offended, 
his first step is to go to the individual. When we 
apply such an expression to the heart, we use it 
figuratively, of course. Have you not sometimes 
felt, when you were thinking of some person whom 
you loved, and who was away from you, as if your 



128 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

heart went out to that person, and then it seemed 
as if the distance between you was lessened, though 
it was not, in reality?" 

" O yes, papa, I know what sort of feelings you 
mean, very well. When you and mamma were 
gone away, last summer, I used to think of you 
till it almost seemed as if you were here; and then 
my heart would almost jump out to meet you, and 
the tears would come into my eyes when I remem- 
bered how far away you were." 

44 On the other hand, when you think of a per- 
son whom you do not like, your heart draws back, 
as it were, and retires into itself. Now, just tell 
me, in which of these ways is it affected when yoa 
think of Christ ?" 

Maria was silent. 

44 Does your heart ever go out to him in love and 
confidence?" 

44 1 — I — no papa, I never felt towards him as I did 
to you. But how can I make my heart love him ?" 

44 Make your heart love, Maria ? You cannot." 

44 That is what I have said a hundred times, 
papa, and you always tell me it is no excuse." 

44 And I have told you, too, a hundred times, why 
it is no excuse ; but I will tell you again. Suppose 
you had come to me, when I returned, and said*, 
4 Pa, I am not glad to see you, at all. and I do nol 
love you; but I suppose I ought to, and I wish you 



! 






THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 129 

would teach me how to make my heart love you :' 
Do you think I ought to be satisfied ?" 

u No, papa." 

" Might I not say to you, If you love me, my 
daughter, you do it voluntarily, and not of con- 
straint ; and if you do not, that is your fault, but I 
want no constrained affection?" 

" Yes, papa." 

" I can explain to you, I think, what is meant 
by faith, too. Suppose you had been guilty of a 
crime for which you were tried ; and of which, if 
you were convicted, the punishment would be 
death. "While you are lying in prison, trembling, 
and fearing the result of the trial, there comes a 
man to you and says, ' I will undertake to plead 
your cause, and to save you from punishment, on 
one condition. You must give up all other means 
of defence ; you must employ no other advocate, 
but confide implicitly in me; on this condition, I 
will save you.' Now, if you believed this man, 
and, without adopting any other means of defence, 
should feel perfectly secure as to the result of the 
trial, you would show that you had faith in his 
promise." 

"But, papa, would it not be foolish to feel such 
confidence in a man that I knew nothing about? 
He might deceive me, and then it would be too late 
to adopt any other measures." 



130 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" It certainly would be, in the case I have sup* 
posed. In order to make the similitude apply in 
all its circumstances, you must suppose that you 
had received the fullest possible proof of his power, 
skill, and benevolence ; that he has already saved 
thousands who have confided in him ; and that 
there was no other source from which help could 
possibly come. Would it not then be the height 
of folly to reject his offers ?" 

44 Yes, papa." 

" And has not Christ given you the fullest proofs 
of his ability and willingness to save you % Has 
he not saved all who have trusted in him? You 
cannot offer him a greater insult than to doubt 
either his power or his love." 

The thought which was in Maria's heart at this 
moment was uttered almost involuntarily, and be- 
fore she was aware of it. 

" Why doesn't he save me, then ?" said she, in a 
petulant tone, though she felt ashamed and fright- 
ened the moment the words had escaped her. Her 
father paused and looked at her solemnly, almost 
sternly, as he said, 

" Because you will not let him, Maria " and left 
the room. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

" Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots ? Then may 

I Ye also learn to do well, that are accustomed to do evil." 
Although Maria's plea of inability had been 
so fully answered by her father, she was far from 
relinquishing it. Indeed, since she had become con- 
vinced, in some measure, of the sinfulness of her 
heart, and of her dependance on God for every 
thing good, there was no excuse which she urged 
so frequently as this. 

The verse which stands at the head of this chap 
ter followed her for several days after reading it, 
and gave her great distress. In order to open a 
conversation with her father, she repeated the pas- 
sage, and inquired what it meant. 

■ It is a strong mode of expressing the power of 
long-continued habit," replied her father. " You 
know something of this, yourself, in little things. 
Don't you recollect how much difficulty you found 
in breaking yourself of the foolish habit you had 
some years ago, of sucking your thumb?" 

" Yes, papa, I remember it well enough. Though 
I was ashamed, and wanted very much to cure my- 



132 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

self of it, I could not ; and I don't believe I ever 
should, if you had not made me wear a glove." 

" Well, my dear, if in such trifles habit is so 
hard to be overcome, just think how much greater 
the difficulty must be in the case of the sinner. He 
never had any inclination to good, but only to evil ; 
and if he found this inclination too strong to be re- 
sisted at first, how shall he overcome it when the 
force of habit has made it still stronger ? How 
shall one who has all his life been accustomed to 
regard God, his Son, and his law, with feelings of 
aversion, begin to love them? How shall one who 
has always worshipped and loved himself su 
premely, begin to worship and love his Creator ? 
How shall one who has lived for years with a 
heart full of pride and selfishness, and envy and 
revenge, become lowly and benevolent, gentle and 
patient, kind and forgiving?" 

"How, indeed?" thought Maria, as she applied 
every word to herself. " I see there is no hope for 
me!" Then hard thoughts of God, and of his 
law began to rise in her mind. Why had he crea- 
ted her with such a heart, or why created her at 
all ? 'Why did he require what her utmost efforts 
would not enable her to perform ? She hardly 
dared again propose these objections to her father, 
but at length she ventured to say, that if sinners 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 133 

were so unable to change their hearts, she could not 
see how they were to blame. 

Her father sighed. " They are to blame because 
their very inability, consisting simply in unwilling- 
ness, constitutes their guilt. They have all the 
powers necessary to doing their duty — there is no- 
thing wanting but a disposition ; and if the want 
of a disposition constitutes an excuse, then there is 
not only no such a thing as guilt in the universe, but 
the more a man sins the less guilty he is. Why will 
you offer to your Creator an excuse which you 
would blush to present to a fellow-creature, and 
which you know would not be received a't any hu- 
man tribunal?" 

It was now Maria's turn to sigh. 

" I know what you think, my dear," resumed 
her father; "you think that you are a poor, un- 
fortunate creature, who are to be punished for hav- 
ing a wicked heart, which you cannot help, and for 
not obeying a law, which it is impossible you should 
obey. It seems to you that you have been doing 
every thing you possibly could to obtain salvation, 
and, as if it would be very unjust and cruel in God 
to leave you to perish, after all your prayers, and 
tears, and efforts. Is it not so?" 

Maria hesitated. 

" I do not mean that you have just those thoughts, 
distinctly arranged, but you have such feelings." 
12 



134 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, papa, it does seem to me as if I am trying 
all I can to be saved." 

"; Well, my dear, all I can say to you is, that be- 
fore you will ever be saved, you must feel that you 
have never done any thing towards your salvation, 
but every thing to prevent it ; that it would be per- 
fectly just in God to leave you to perish ; and, in 
short, that God is all right, and you all wrong. 
For, 

" ' Christ would sooner abdicate his own, 

Than stoop from heaven, to give the proud a throne.' " 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" Friends and ministers said much 

The gospel to enforce, 
But my blindness still was such, 

I chose a legal course. 
Much I lasted, watched, and strove, 

Scarce would show my face abroad, 
Feared almost to speak or move, 

A stranger still to God." 

" And good resolves, a moment hot, 
Fairly begun, but finished not." 

It is not necessary to continue to trace the pro- 
gress of Maria's mind with the same minuteness 
that we have hitherto done. For many years, her 
history would be only a repetition of similar cir- 
cumstances and conversations. During all this 
time, she was engaged in constant efforts to re- 
commend herself to the favor of God, and purchase 
heaven by her own good works. It is not asserted 
that she was always equally interested in the sub- 
ject ; on the contrary, there were weeks, and even 
ononths, when she appeared totally regardless con- 
erning it. After such an interval of carelessness, 
..er impressions would return with renew r ed force; 
awakened either by some remarkable providence, 
or by a conversation with her father, or sometimes 



136 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

without any external cause. At such times she 
was exceedingly distressed at her situation ; she 
began to attend to religious duties, and read the 
Bible, and prayed every day with great zeal, so 
long as her impressions lasted. By degrees, how- 
ever, they were effaced, her devotions were neg- 
lected, and her goodness was as the morning 
cloud and the early dew. Her external conduct 
was such as might be expected from such a state 
of heart. Sometimes, for a few days, all went on 
smoothly; nothing occurred to call forth the cor- 
ruptions of her heart, and she fancied they were 
subdued. But while her mountain stood strong, 
and she said, " I shall never be moved," her foot 
slipped ; some unexpected temptation sufficed to 
put to flight all her good resolutions, and ruin all 
her self-righteous projects. Then her distress and 
mortification equalled her previous security ; she 
was irritated, impatient, and desponding; and this 
led to new faults in her conduct. Yet these feel- 
ings, which were, in reality, only mortified pride, 
she mistook for humility, and fancied, when she 
had heaped upon herself all manner of harsh epi- 
thets, that she had atoned for her past faults, and 
might begin a new essay. On the whole, the 
principal benefit she derived from all these years 
of trial and disappointment, was increased know- 
ledge of the desperate wickedness of her heart, and 






THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 137 

a deeper conviction, that, of herself, she could 
never perform one holy act. These convictions 
did not, it is true, affect her heart, but they gained 
over her understanding and conscience to the side 
of truth. The incidents and conversations which 
follow, occurred at intervals during the period 
which we have thus generally described. 

One evening, Maria's father related in her pre- 
sence an anecdote of a little daughter of Dr. Dod- 
dridge, which pleased Maria extremely. When 
this child, about six years old, was asked, what 
made every body love her ? she replied, " I don't 
know, indeed, papa, unless it is because I love 
every body." The beautiful simplicity of this re- 
ply struck Maria forcibly ; she sat for some time 
deep in thought, smiling occasionally, and looking 
as if she had something to say, but saying nothing. 
" If that is all that is necessary in order to be loved," 
thought Maria, " I will soon make everybody love 
me : :: and she pleased herself in imagining how 
obliging and affectionate she would be, and how 
every body would love and admire her. Her 
father mentioned a remark of John Newton, that 
he considered the world to be divided into two 
great masses, one of happiness, and the other of 
misery ; and it was his daily business to take as 
much as possible from the heap of misery, and add 
it to that of happiness. " Now," thought Maria, 
12* 



138 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" I will begin to-morrow to try to make every 
body happy. Instead of thinking all the time 
about myself, I will ask, every minute, what 1 
can do for somebody else. Papa has often told 
me that this is the best way of being happy myself, 
and I am determined to try. }> 

All this seemed so easy, so delightful, in antici- 
pation, that Maria fancied it would be equally so 
in reality. How shall it be told that this day was 
spent by her very much as other days had been ; 
that it was still, as ever, her first object to please 
herself; and that she quite forgot, at least, when it 
was most necessary that she should remember 
them, her benevolent plans. She did recollect 
them once or twice, with no small surprise that 
she should not hav£ done it sooner; but somehow 
or other, as she said to herself, " it came so natu- 
ral" to think of herself first, that these occasional 
thoughts did little good. While she was medita- 
ting on these things in the evening, her father, as 
if he had guessed her thoughts, said, 

11 Well, Maria, how much is the world the better 
for you to-day V 

Maria blushed, but did not reply. 

" Have you added any thing to the heap of hap- 
piness ?" 

" I don't know, papa — I " — 

" Do you mean that you have tried to ?" 



THE pastor's daughter. 139 

" Yes, papa ; or, at least, I meant to in the 
morning- — but" — 

" But you found it harder than you had expected.'' 

" Yes, papa." 

"But I suppose you have done something to- 
day for other people. You have done some 
things for me ; you know you bathed my head, 
because it ached, and read me to sleep, and dusted 
my books." 

11 O, but papa, I love to do any thing for you." 

" Well, don't you love to do things for other 
people?" 

" Yes, papa, sometimes — but — papa, I have done 
some good to-day, I believe, in helping mamma 
take care of the baby, and such things ; but I 
thought I ought not to count them, because" — 

" Because what, my dear ?" 

"Because I am obliged to do them — I mean, I 
should have to, if I did not want to, and therefore 
there is no goodness in doing them." 

" Very true ; that is, there is not necessarily, any 
goodness in them — but should you not like to help 
your mother, if you were not obliged to?" 

" Sometimes I like it, p pa, and sometimes I 
don't — when I am tired, or the baby is cross, or I 
want to read." 

" Well, at those times you have an opportunity 
of exercising self-denial. Instead of performing 



140 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

your work reluctantly and impatiently, wishing 
you were not obliged to do it, think with yourself, 
* Now I have an opportunity of doing some good. 
I can make my mother happy by assisting her 
cheerfully; I can make the baby happy by amus 
ing him, and playing with him ; and I can please 
my heavenly Father, by quietly and cheerfully 
performing the duties which Le has allotted me.' 
Would not this be a good way, Maria ?! 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, her eyes filling with 
tears. She longed to throw her arms around her 
father's neck, and tell him how much she loved 
him, and wanted to do all that would give him 
pleasure ; but she never found it easy to express 
her feelings of affection, either by words or cares- 
ses, and she sat perfectly still, looking into the fire, 
and trying to keep the tears from her eyes. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

" This lesson ne'er was given to earth ; 
One had it— He of heavenly birth. 
Reviled, rejected, and betrayed, 
No curse he breathed, no plaint he made ; 
But vvhPM in death's last pang he sigh'd, 
Prayed lor his murderers— and died." 

One d' / Maria returned from school weeping 
violently, apparently from a mixture of grief and 
resentment. On inquiry, it seemed that one of her 
school-mates, to whom she was particularly attach- 
ed, ha^ treated her very ill, and finally told her she 
would never speak to her again. Her father sug- 
gested some topics of consolation, and cautioned 
her against wrong feelings ; but he could not then 
stop to say much. After tea, however, observing 
Maria's pensive and uneasy look, he asked her if 
she had considered that one part of Christ's suffer- 
ings arose from the inconstancy and perfidy of pro- 
fessed friends. 

Maria replied, that she had never thought much 
about it. 9 9 

Her father went on to speak of the ingratitude, 
levity, and fickleness of the disciples of Jesus ; of 
their sleeping in the garden ; forsaking him when 



142 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

he was apprehended ; and of the treachery of the 
detested Judas. 

Maria was affected by this description, and she 
wept — partly from grief for herself, and partly from 
pity for the Savior. 

After a while she asked : — 

" Papa, do you suppose that Christ felt these 
things just as a man would do ?" 

" Certainly, my dear — was he not a man?" 

" Yes, papa, I know that ; but then he was God 
too ; and it never seemed as if he really suffered, 
like other men. When I think of his dying, or 
of any of his sufferings, I always imagine, or at 
least I feel, as if they were not half so hard for 
him to bear as if he were a man only." 

" That is a very common mistake, Maria, but a 
mistake, nevertheless. It is true that we are utterly 
unable to comprehend how the Divine and human 
natures are united in Christ, but we know that 
neither of them was destroyed by the union. Jesus 
Christ, therefore, was really and truly a man ; he 
had friends whom he loved with a peculiar affec- 
tion, as other men have; and the ingratitude and 
perfidy of these friends grieved him as it would 
any other man." 

" If I thought so, papa, I should feel a great 
deal more — more — I should be more sorry for the 
sufferings of Christ." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 143 

" Well, my dear, you may think so, for it is true. 
If it were not, Christ's agonizing prayer in the 
garden, and his dying exclamation, ' My God, my 
God, why hast thou forsaken meV would have 
been a mere pretence and mockery." 

" Papa, how could Christ ask why God had 
forsaken him, when he was God himself?- 1 ' 

" I do not know, Maria. It is a mystery which, 
as I said before, we cannot understand." 

After thinking a little about this, Maria went 
back to thinking of herself She was going over 
the circumstances of the quarrel for the thousandth 
time, (every one of which reviews made her feel 
more pity for herself, and more resentment against 
her friend,) when her father spoke. 

" Maria, do you think you have entirely forgiven 
Susan B. ?" 

" I don't know, papa," replied Maria, blushing 
hesitating, and twisting her handkerchief into all 
manner of shapes. " I suppose I should forgive 
her if she should ask me." 

" You should not wait for that. It is not neces- 
sary to tell her that you forgive her until she asks 
you, but you should do so from the heart new. 
Suppose I should help you to find out whether you 
have done it or not. You know some people say, 
1 1 can forgive, but never forget.' Now that is 
not sincere forgiveness. If we are continually 



144 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

dwelling on the circumstances of the offence, re- 
calling them again and again, and placing them in 
the most unfavorable point of vievv for him who 
has injured us, we have not truly forgiven." 

Maria looked guilty, but said nothing. 

" Another thing which is essentia] to true for- 
giveness is, the absence of all desire for revenge. 
We must not form any plans for returning the in- 
jury we have received, nor must we even secretly 
wish that some evil may befall the person who has 
inflicted it." 

" Then, papa, I have not sincerely forgiven Su- 
san, for I have had all these feelings about her; 
and I don't see how any body could help having 
some of them — I don't see how any person could 
forget, or" — 

" An unrenewed heart never could ; and this 
shows the necessity of its being renewed. But I 
have not yet told you all that is necessary to con- 
stitute true forgiveness. We must not only refrain 
from wishing any manner of ill to our enemies, 
but we must sincerely wish them all manner of 
good ; we must rejoice in their prosperity, and 
grieve if any misfortune happens to them ; we must 
be able to pray for God's blessing upon them, and 
we must do them all the good in our power, and 
this, even if they should persist in injuring and ill- 
treating us." 



the pastor's daughter. 145 

" O papa, that is impossible. 11 

" Impossible, as I said before, to the unrenewed 
heart ; nevertheless, it is what the law of God re- 
quires." 

Maria's thoughts, if expressed, would perhaps 
have been, that the law was a great deal too strict ; 
that nobody ever could obey it, and that she should 
not make the attempt. 

She did not say this, but she said, bursting into 
a passion of tears, — 

" If I have got to feel so before I get to heaven, 
I am sure I shall never get there." 

" No, never, Maria, if you wait till such feelings 
spring up in your heart of themselves. Nothing 
but the operation of God's spirit, can produce in 
the heart emotions so opposed to its natural tem- 
per. But though this law appears so hard to you, 
Christ requires of us no more than he practised 
himself. Did he not forgive us as I have de- 
scribed ?" 

" I suppose so, papa." 

" You suppose so ? Well, I know so. Would 
Christ have suffered and died for enemies whom he 
had not forgiven? Would he have suffered and died 
while he was brooding over their offences in his 
mind, resolving to punish them, or indulging any 
thing like revenge? Did he show any such 
temper, when he excused his disciples for sleeping 
13 



146 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

in the hour of his greatest agony, by saying, ' The 
spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak?' Did 
he show it when his only reply to the taunts and 
insults of his enraged enemies was, * Father, for- 
give them?'" 

Maria felt ashamed of her wicked thoughts, and 
could not but acknowledge that Christ had set the 
most perfect example of obedience to his own law. 

" But, papa, if Christ must have forgiven sinners 
before he would be willing to die for them, why 
are not all sinners pardoned?" 

" My dear, the forgiveness which I have describ- 
ed, and which is a state of mind, is quite distinct from 
what may be called judicial pardon, as exercised by 
a sovereign or judge. To illustrate what I mean ; 
suppose that you disobey one of my commands, 
and persist in disobedience ; it is my duty to forgive 
you immediately, so far as I have described ; that 
is, to cherish no revengeful feelings, to love you, 
and pray for you, and desire your good. But it 
is not, by any means, my duty to treat you as if 
you were obedient ; on the contrary, I must mani- 
fest my displeasure at your conduct so long as you 
continue it. But when you are sorry and confess 
your fault, then I may pardon you ; that is I may ex- 
press the forgiveness which I had accorded at first, 
and remove all punishment. The same is true of 
any earthly governor, and of God. It will not do 



THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 147 

for Christ, however much he may desire it, to far- 
don sinners without repentance. 

" And now, Maria, I hope you will make it 
your first business to forgive Susan freely, fully, 
and cordially." 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

" One there i9 above all others, 
"Well deserves the name of friend ; 

His is love beyond a brother's, 
Costly, free, and knows no end. 

They who once His kindness prove, 

Find it everlasting love." 

A few 'days after this affair, Maria's father ask- 
ed her what qualities she would like in a friend, 
provided she could choose one after her own fancy. 

Maria reflected a moment : " I know very well, 
papa, but there are so many things that I hardly 
know where to begin. " 

" Well, I will help you a little. Would you 
like to have a friend who Avas your equal in re- 
gard to external circumstances, or one who was 
much your superior — a king, for instance?" 

" I should like to have a king for my friend on 
some accounts, papa, because he would be so pow- 
erful and so rich that he could protect me: but 
then I should always be afraid of him, and he 
would not care if I was glad or sorry, and if he 
was ever so kind to me, it would not be real friend- 
ship after all; so I should not want a king, papa. 1 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 149 

" You think you would want sympathy, I sup- 
pose," said her father, smiling". 

Maria smiled too, and blushed, for she knew 
what her father was thinking of. 

A few days before, Maria had received a present 
of a beautiful paint-box, on which occasion she had 
manifested the most extravagant delight. After 
sundry capers and gesticulations, and displaying 
her present to all the family who were below 
stairs, she ran to find her father in his study. He 
was sick in body and mind, but Maria did not 
know it; and though he smiled and told her he 
was glad she was happy, yet she w r as disappointed 
that he did not participate more fully in her child- 
ish delight. Her mother, shortly after, found Ma- 
ria behind the closet door, in the next room, crying 
as if her heart would break, because, she said, as 
well as her sobs would permit, her "father did not 
seem glad when she show r ed him her box." 

But to return to the conversation. 

"You are right, I believe, Maria," continued 
her father, " in thinking there could be no friend- 
ship without sympathy ; but why do you think a 
king could not sympathize ?" 

" O, there would be such a great distance be- 
tween us, and my affairs would be so insignificant, 
when he had a kingdom to take care of, and — I 
i3* 



150 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

don't know, I never heard of a friendship between 
a king and a subject — did you, papa?" 

" Yes, there have been some instances of such 
friendships, though they are very rare. But at any 
rate, as you are only describing what you should 
like, it is no matter whether it ever existed or not. 
The question is, whether you would like to be the 
friend of a king, provided he was just such a man 
as you liked, and you felt as much confidence in 
him, and as little afraid of him, a's of any other 
person ?" 

" O yes, papa, I should like it then, because he 
could give me every thing I wanted." 

" Well, what next ? You would want a faithful 
friend, of course; one who would be always the 
same, and never desert you ?" 

" Yes, indeed, papa;" and Maria thought of Su- 
san. 

"And a generous one?" 

" Yes, papa, I hate stingy people. And I should 
want one who did not get offended easily, and who 
was not always suspecting that something was the 
matter, and that I did not love Aer," (changing her 
friend to the feminine gender,) " as somebody else 
does that I know." 

" That is, you would wish your friend to repose 
enough confidence in you, not to doubt your sin- 
cerity?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 151 

14 Yes, papa, and that is another thing that I 
should want — sincerity. I cannot hear deceitful 
people, nor selfish people, nor proud people; so 
there are two more qualities I should want — disin- 
terestedness and humility." 

" Quite a list of virtues you have made out, 
Maria." 

" And then I should want my friend to love me 
— O, so much ! — more than any hody else in the 
world." 

"That would he rather selfish, would it not? 
But is this all?" 

" That is all that I can tell, I helieve; hut there 
are a great many little sorts of things that I should 
like. I should want my friend to be gentle in her 
manners, and I should want her to have a pleasant 
voice and a pleasant countenance, and she must be 
cheerful, and talk just enough, and not too much — 
and ever so many more things." 

" I think you would have a very good sort of 
friend ; but do you expect ever to find such a one ?" 

44 No, indeed, papa," said Maria, her counte- 
nance suddenly falling; 44 1 shall never have an- 
other friend." 

" Never, my dear? Are you not rather hasty?" 

44 No, papa, I should never trust any body again." 

44 That would be very foolish, to say the least, 
never to trust again, because you have been once 



152 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

deceived. However, you are right in supposing 
ihui you will never find such a friend as you 
have described. You may have kind friends 
whom you will love, and who will love you; but 
there will always be some defect — something that 
you will wish otherwise. And even if their affec- 
tion is perfectly sincere and disinterested, you 
know they have no power to protect from evil ; 
they cannot restore you in sickness ; they .may 
themselves be taken away by death ; and if not, 
you must die, and leave them. But, you know, 
Maria, there is one friend who is all and more 
than all you have described.'' 

" Yes, papa, Jesus Christ." 

" Yes, he is infinitely powerful to protect you, 
and yet infinitely tender and gentle to sympathize 
with you ; faithful, sincere, generous, disinterested, 
humble, self-denying, and ready to love you with 
a love stronger than death. Is it not strange, Ma- 
ria, that when just such a friend is offered you as 
you have wished for, you should reject him?" 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, for once not seeking 
to excuse herself. 

" My dear child, I want you to look at the char- 
acter of Christ — to study it. Think, first of all, the 
perfections you can imagine to exist — think of in- 
finite wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, 
faithfulness, truth, and love — add one after another 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 153 

of these perfections, till they all blend and unite in 
one harmonious whole, blazing with a lustre so 
resplendent and dazzling, that not only men, but 
angels, must veil their faces before it — a lustre 
compared with which the sun is dark, and the 
highest created excellence, deformity. Look at 
this Being — is he not awful, glorious, lovely? 
Yes, you might love Him, and reverence Him, 
and admire Him, but he could never be your 
friend. How could such a Being sympathize with 
human infirmities and human sorrows? But He 
veils Himself in flesh ; he takes upon him your 
nature; He unites to all the glories of divinity, all 
that is lovely and excellent in humanity — the in- 
finite God united to a perfect man. Now, He can 
understand your wants and sorrows, for He has 
felt them; He comes to you with all the majesty 
of a God, and all the sympathizing tenderness of a 
brother, and offers to be your friend. Maria, will 
you open your heart to Him?" 

Maria did not reply, she could not, but her tears 
and sobs told how deeply she w 7 as affected. Her 
father sighed to remember how often her tears -had 
flowed without effect, and silently prayed that this 
might prove to be a sincere repentance. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

"Though various foes against the truth combine, 
Pride, above all, opposes her design." 

" All has been tried, 
That wisdom infinite, and boundless grace, 
Working together, could devise." 

" Of how much sorer punishment shall he be thought worthy, who has 
trodden under foot the Son of God." 

Maria's Father, as it will already have been ob- 
served, was in the habit of drawing instruction 
from every thing. No incident was too trifling to 
furnish him with matter for profitable reflection. 

One evening, George, who had been, as usual to 
procure milk from a neighboring family, returned 
to say that he had fallen down and spilled it all. 
His mother directed him to go back for some more, 
which he was very unwilling to do, begging that 
he might go somewhere else for it. His mother 
insisted, however, and he went. 

" Suppose, Maria," said her father, " that George 
had been for milk a great many times, and spilled 
it each time, would not his unwillingness to return 
be much increased ? M 

" Yes, papa, I supnose so." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 155 

" And if he had been a hundred, or a thousand 
times, probably nothing but a very severe punish- 
ment would induce him to go again. Now this is, 
in part, the secret of the sinner's unwillingness to 
go to Christ. To go as a poor, miserable suppli- 
ant, deserving nothing but death, is hard, in any 
case ; but to go and ask for mercies which he has 
a thousand times abused, this is so hard that he 
never will do it, till he absolutely despairs of 
being saved in any other way." 

"But, papa, is it a wrong feeling to be unwilling 

to ask again and again for favors that we have 

I abused ? I always thought it showed a want of 

delicacy to ask so often, especially for things that 

we make a bad use of." 

" My dear child, a great deal of what goes by 
the name of delicacy, is nothing but pride. How- 
ever, I can suppose a case, in which a right feeling 
might operate to prevent a person from asking a 
repetition of favors from a fellow-creature. Sup- 
pose, for instance, that I should, several times, give 
a poor man money for his family, and he should 
spend it in buying rum for himself; if he should 
afterwards repent and reform, a feeling of real 
, shame and contrition might make him unwilling 
to trespass again on my bounty. But such a case 
would not at all resemble ours in relation to God, 
and you must not expect any illustration, drawn 



156 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

from the conduct of men, to apply to him, in all 
particulars. 

" Do you mean, then, papa, that it is pride which 
makes a person unwilling to ask God for favors ?" 

" Yes, pride and nothing else. It would he both 
absurd and impious to pretend that delicacy restrain- 
ed us from asking of a Being who is not empover- 
ished by giving, nor enriched by withholding, and 
who moreover invites, entreats, and commands us 
to ask of Him. If it were not for pride, sinners 
would be willing to go to God just as they are, , 
without stopping to lay up a hoard of good works 
to recommend them to God, This is the secret of 
all your prayers, and resolutions, and efforts ; this 
is the reason why you are so reluctant to pray after 
you have spoiled your imaginary goodness by some 
act of transgression, and why you can go to God 
with so much confidence when you think you have 
done pretty well, and that he is pleased with you." 

" How did you know that I had such feelings, 
papa ?" 

" As in water, face answereth to face, so the 
heart of man to man. All sinners have such 
thoughts and feelings, if they think and feel at 
all in regard to religion. But do not let us for- 
get our subject. Suppose this house should take 
fire'some night, and before the flames were dis- 
covered, it should be almost consumed. Suppose 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 157 

farther, that your mother and I, and all the children 
but you, had escaped from it, and were safe, but 
you were still asleep, and unconscious of your dan- 
ger. Just as the walls are ready to fall in, and 
every body has given you up for lost, a man rushes 
forward, plants a ladder, springs up to your room, 
and in at the window, through the smoke and 
flames, and finds you just awaked, uttering cries of 
anguish and despair. He is going to take you in his 
arms, and carry you down the ladder, but you re- 
ject his proffered aid, and look round for some 
other way of escape ; and when you can find none, 
you prefer perishing in the flames to being saved 
by him. Now what would such conduct on your 
part indicate ?" 

"It would be so strange, papa, that I can hardly 
even suppose such a thing ; but it would show that 
I hated him very much, I should think." 

il Yes, there could be no stronger expression of 
abhorrence and contempt. And if you suppose, 
farther, that the man had always been your friend, 
md that he had burned himself very badly in going 
hrough the flames for you, what else would it 
how?" 

" Ingratitude, I should think." 

" Yes, the greatest. And if he should leave you 
aere, would not every body say you deserved to 
erish?" 

14 



158 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, papa, and I should think so myself." 

" And yet, this is but a faint representation of the 
way in which you treat Christ. You are exposed 
to a terrible and imminent danger, from which he 
only can deliver you ; he has purchased the right 
to deliver you with his blood, yet you reject him. 
What madness ! what ingratitude (" 

He. was silent for a moment, then continued. 

" In estimating the amount of your sins, Maria, 
do you ever take into account this one, of rejecting 
Christ ?" 

" No, papa." 

" And yet it is the worst of them all. The an- 
cients used to say, ' Call a man ungrateful, and 
you can call him nothing worse.' And what in- 
gratitude can be blacker than that displayed in 
the rejection of Christ? If the redemption he of- 
fers had cost him nothing, it would still be the 
height of madness to refuse it; but it would not 
evince such desperate, base ingratitude. And how 
such ingratitude must grieve and wound the heart 
of the Savior ! That, in spite of all his love, and 
after all his sufferings, men should refuse to let 
him save them, and thus, so far as they are con- 
cerned, make his death of no effect. If we could 
be saved in any other way, it would seem as if we 
could not refuse to let him have the pleasure which 
he has so dearly bought. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 159 

41 But O, how unspeakably dreadful will be the 
fate of those who reject him! Better, far better for 
them, never to have heard of his love, or listened 
to his offers of pardon." 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

" To feel our hearts can bleed, yet not repent ; 
To sigh, yet not recede ; to grieve, yet not relent." 

" Papa, which is best, to make resolutions and 
break them, or not to make any ?" 

" Indeed, Maria, it is hard to choose between 
two such bad things." 

" Well, papa, I believe I must choose, for I never 
keep my resolutions." 

" One thing is pretty certain ; that if we do not 
make any resolutions, we never can keep them. 
But is there any absolute necessity for your break- 
ing yours ?" 

" It seems as if there was, papa. I do not know 
how I can resolve any more strongly, or try any 
harder, than I have done thousands of times, when 
it was of no use." 

" What sort of resolutions are those which you 
break most frequently?" 

" I don't know, papa — all sorts. Sometimes I 
resolve that I will not be angry or selfish for a 
week, or that I will attend to religion." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 161 

"And in what circumstances do you break these 
resolutions oftenest?" 

" Why, papa, I most always forget that I have 
resolved at all. Something happens to make me 
angry, and I am angry right away, without stop- 
ping to think of my resolution." 

" Do you suppose that if you could always think 
in time, it would keep you from doing wrong?" 

" I guess it would, papa — no, I don't think it 
would, ahvays, for sometimes I have remembered, 
and it did not do any good." 

" Can you tell me any instance ?" 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, blushing, " I remem- 
ber once when I went to see old Mrs. S. she gave 
me some plums when I was coming home, and 
said, I could give some to my little brother, if I 
pleased. I told her I would, and I meant to ; but 
when I had eaten my half, they tasted so good, that 
I thought I would take one more, and so I kept tak- 
ing one more, till they were all gone ; and though 
I thought all the time that it was selfish, I could 
not help eating them." 

" How did you feel afterwards ?" 

" I felt very badly when I first got home, but 
still worse when I went to bed; and you can't 
think, papa, how differently it looked to me after- 
wards from what it did at the time. While I was 
eating them it did not seem very bad, hardly 
14* 



162 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

wrong at all ; but afterwards, I had that dreadful 
feeling which I always have when I have done 
wrong" — 

" That feeling is called remorse." 

" And I would have given up all the plums if I 
had had them again; and I was so ashamed, I call- 
ed myself all sorts of bad names." 

" You have described, Maria, the feelings with 
which people generally regard sin at the time of 
its commencement, and afterwards. When they 
are tempted to do wrong, the sin appears very 
small, and the gratification to be obtained by it 
very great. They contrive to gloss over the 
wrong, and make it appear right; but afterwards, 
when conscience is awakened, they pay dearly for 
the short-lived pleasure. Sin is pleasant in the 
beginning, but in the end it ' bites like a serpent, 
and stings like an* adder.' But tell me, Maria, if 
you could, by a wish, have freed yourself from that 
painful feeling of remorse, would you not have 
done it?" 

" Yes, papa, I think — I am almost sure I should." 

" Then, my dear, you see the truth of what I 
told you, that if you had a ring like prince Cheris, 
you would throw it away. But there is a way in 
which you can get rid of remorse, if you choose, 
Maria." 

" What do you mean, papa ?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 163 

"Remorse is occasioned by the reproaches of 
conscience. Now, it is possible to still the voice 
of conscience; if her admonitions are habitually- 
neglected, she will soon cease to warn ; the most 
flagrant sins will fail to arouse her: she becomes 
seared as with a hot iron, and the man is given up 
'to work all unclean ness with greediness.' " 

■ O, papa, how dreadful ! I should rather bear 
the pain of remorse, than get rid of it in this way." 

" I trust you would, my child. Besides, you 
would get rid of it only for a short time. In eter- 
nity, the conscience of every man will awake, and 
lash him with unsparing severity. Then the 
pleasures of sin will be for ever past, and nothing 
will remain but its bitter, bitter fruits." 

After a short pause, during which Maria seemed 
much affected, her father resumed: — 

" Above all things, Maria, obey the very first 
admonitions of your conscience; cherish it as your 
most faithful monitor; never disregard its warn- 
ings in one single instance, if you would preserve 
your soul from ruin." 

Maria, as usual, resolved that she would do so, 
and, as usual, she broke her resolution. 






CHAPTER XXIX. 



M If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied the*, thei 
how canst thou contend with horses ?" 

The following conversation occurred one day, 
after Maria had been for several weeks unusually 
careless in regard to the subject of religion. 

" Suppose, Maria, a man had a piece of ground 
overgrown with thistles and brambles, which he 
was to clear and put in order before a certain time ; 
and when he was asked why he did not set about 
it immediately, he should reply, ' O, I have been 
trying, and find I cannot do it now ; but if I wait 
two or three years, till the thistles are grown up, I 
am in hopes I shall be able to accomplish it.' 
Would you not think his conduct highly absurd ?" 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, in a low voice, fore- 
seeing the application. 

" If a man had a work to do which he must 
perform, and which was every day becoming more 
difficult, while his strength was every day dimin- 
ishing, it would be madness to defer it an hour ?" 

"Yes, papa." 

* Well, my dear, you have a work to perform — 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 165 

a work which must be done. The longer you de- 
fer it, the greater will be the difficulty, and the less 
will be your strength. What do you hope to gain 
by delay ?" 

To escape from this question, which she knew 
not how to answer, Maria proposed another. 

" But, papa, why will it be harder to repent by- 
and-by than now ?" 

" Even if it should not be so, Maria, you are 
not the better off, for you say you cannot possibly 
repent now. But the truth is, you do not believe 
this when you say it." 

Maria opened her eyes to their utmost extent. 

" Do not believe it, papa ?" 

" No. If you believed that you could not pos- 
sibly repent, and that, consequently, you would be 
miserable for ever, would you be sitting here so 
quietly ?" 

" Why, if I could not do any thing to help myself, 
I might as well be quiet as not." 

44 Might as well be quiet! yes, but you would 
not be, any more than you would be quiet if you 
were in a burning building, and knew that all ef- 
forts to escape would be useless. No, no, it is not 
the nature of men who know they are to be for ever 
miserable, to be quiet about it. But now examine 
your heart, and see if there is not a secret feeling 
there, that, after all, if you were brought to extrem- 



166 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

ities, if you were dying, for instance, you could 
repent." 

" Why — yes, papa ; although I think sometimes 
I have tried as hard as I possibly could, yet it seems 
as if I might, perhaps, do a little more if it should 
come to the worst." 

" Yes, that is the way with all sinners. They 
have all an undefined expectation, without any 
ground, that somehow or other — they don't exactly 
know how — they shall escape. O, my child ! is 
there no way in which I can convince you that 
what you cannot do now, in youth and in health, 
you will not be able to do in old age, or on a dy- 
ing bed?" 

Maria was affected with the earnest tenderness 
of her father's manner, and she wept, but did not 
reply. 

He sighed deeply and resumed : — 

" You ask why it will be more difficult to repent 
hereafter than now. There are several reasons. 
The natural effect of age is, to render the heart 
less susceptible of impressions, less disposed to 
yield to persuasion. You must have seen this in 
relation to yourself; you are not so easily affected 
as you once were. Besides, the sinner acquires a 
habit of resistance by long continuance in sin, 
which strengthens every day ; he has so many 
times rejected the offers of mercy, that he does it 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 1G7 

now with greater ease ; his heart becomes hardened, 
his conscience seared, and his will fully set in him 
to do evil. 

" Not only does he thus become less able, but 
the obstacles from without increase ; the cares and 
anxieties of this world multiply around him ; the 
demands upon his time become more numerous ; 
and the dread of ridicule and opposition has more 
power over him.' , 

Maria was still thinking* of her father's remark 
that she was less easily affected now than formerly. 

u Yes, it is true," thought she ; " I see it — my 
heart is hardening ; O dear, what will become 
of me?" 

Her father again spoke. 

" In regard to you, Maria, it is absolutely certain 
that the present moment is the most favorable you 
will ever have ; and if you do not repent now, there 
is no reason to hope, so far as your efforts are con- 
cerned, that you ever will. I pray God my child 
may never have occasion to say, ' The harvest is 
past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved !' n 



CHAPTER. XXX. 



"* 



" Offer it now to thy governor—will he be pleased with thee, or bpa 
thee?" 

" I do not see how God can have any right to 
interfere with our thoughts and feelings," was 
Maria's frequent complaint; "if he had only re- 
quired our actions to be so and so, we could have 
obeyed him." 

" You are very generous, Maria," replied her 
father ; " so, you will condescend to permit your 
Creator to control the movements of your body, 
but over the soul which inhabits it, and which 
alone gives it importance, he is to have no author- 
ity. Better, then, that instead -of intelligent and 
thinking beings, God had created lifeless machines; 
for these might have executed a series of outward 
motions, and this, it seems, is all that God is to 
expect from his creatures." 

Maria looked confused. 

" But, papa," said she, after a pause, " earthly 
rulers do not meddle with thoughts and feelings; 
they are satisfied if the conduct is right." 

" True, because they cannot search the heart, 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 169 

and are obliged to content themselves with regu- 
lating the actions. But this is an imperfection in 
human law, the necessary consequence of human 
ignorance; and it is the very excellence of religion 
that it takes cognizance of the heart as well as of 
the conduct. But although the law has nothing 
to do with feelings, yet every man, in his private 
judgment of another, takes into the account his 
motives, does he not?" 

" Yes, papa, I suppose so." 

" Certainly; if you reflect a moment, you will 
be conscious that you do not judge them by their 
actions merely, but by what you can discover of 
their secret feelings and motives. It would not 
be enough to satisfy you in a friend, that she treat- 
ed you with outward kindness, if she had no real 
affection for you, and was merely selfish in her 
motives for professing it." 

" No, indeed, papa, it would not." 

" Well, shall God be satisfied with less than his 
creatures will accept? But let us go on a little, 
and see how many actions derive their whole 
character from the motives which prompt them. 

" You know we have been hoping for a visit 
from your aunt C. Well, now T , suppose she should 
come here, and you should treat her with the 
greatest affection, anticipate all her wants, and en- 
deavor, in every possible way, to make her visit 
15 



170 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

agreeable. This conduct might proceed from one 
of several very different motives. You might 
wish that your aunt should admire and love you, 
and think what an amiable, obliging, affectionate 
little girl you are. (Maria blushed, as if her father 
had read her heart.) This would be vanity. 

;' Or you might think that if you tried to please 
her, she would make you a present ; this would 
be selfishness, or covetousness. Or you might 
really love her, and wish to make her happy; this 
would be benevolence. 

" Again ; you might love your parents so well, 
that, supposing your attentions to her would please 
them, you should treat her kindly from this motive, 
which would be filial affection. Or, finally, you 
I? *~i>+ i ove q oc [ so we u ? that you would do it be- 
cause he has commanded us to seek the happiness 
of others. Now which of all these motives would 
be the right one?" 

" I suppose you mean the last, papa; but I should 
have thought that benevolence and filial affection 
would be right, too." 

" They are right, that is, they are not wrong, 
but they are not enough ; love to God should be 
united with them, and then they become proper 
motives. But you can see, at any rate, that the 
character of the action is entirely changed, in each 
case, by the character of the motive." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 171 

"Yes, papa." 

" And if you had been the aunt, and had per- 
ceived that the little girl's attentions to you were 
prompted by either of the two first motives" — 

"O, papa, I should have disliked her the more, 
the more she tried to please." 

"You acknowledge, then, that the heart alone 
gives a value to outward acts of kindness, and yet 
you wish God to be contented with formal and 
hypocritical services, while your heart is an ene- 
my to him ! O, Maria, when will you learn that 
you are treating your Maker as you would not 
dare to treat an earthly friend — no, nor a common 
acquaintance, nor even a menial; for Him only do 
you require to be pleased with hypocrisy." 

Maria wept, as .usual, and, as usual, her heart 
remained unchanged 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

" And she who ventures to believe it hers, 
Proves by that single thought she has it not." 

Maria frequently found a great deal of pleasure 
in religious duties, and was so much affected as to 
shed floods of tears while confessing her sins, or 
meditating on the love of Christ. These feelings, 
which were animal excitement, she mistook for 
genuine repentance and love. She would go and 
tell God what a yoor miserable sinner she was, 
utterly unworthy of his favor, while she was think- 
ing all the while how pleased he must be to see 
her so penitent and humble. Then she would go 
down stairs, with her heart full of imaginary hu- 
mility, but of real pride, and if things happened to 
go on smoothly, no one could be more amiable 
than Maria. But if her pride met with any mor- 
tification, all her fancied goodness vanished in a 
moment, and passion swelled her bosom. Some- 
times she would take a great deal of pains to work 
herself up into a good frame; to produce in her 
mind convictions of sin, or love to Christ; and when 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 173 

she thought she had succeeded, some slight provo- 
cation would destroy her fine edifice at once. 

One day, after praying for half an hour, with 
many tears, confessing herself to be every thing 
that was vile, she went down stairs, where her 
mother told her that she had not swept the room 
properly. 

" Yes, mamma, I am sure it is clean, for I took 
a great deal of pains with it." 

" Sure it is clean, Maria, when I tell you it is 
not ?" 

11 Well, I am sure I made it clean ; if any body 
has"— 

" Come and look, since nothing else can con- 
vince you," said her mother. 

When Maria saw the dust on the carpet, she could 
not deny that it was there, but was sure that some 
of the children must have been in the room since 
it was swept. After a long debate, her mother 
finally commanded her not to say a word more on 
the subject — an order which Maria obeyed, but not 
without manifest ill-humor. When she came to 
herself a little, she alternately accused her mother 
of unkindness, and called herself a fool for being 
so easily overcome. At any rate, her fancied hu- 
mility had vanished, nor could she, by any effort, 
recall her " good frame." 

If it should be asked why these repeated failures 



J 



174 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

did not convince Maria of her weakness and de-* 
pendance ; it was because she commonly laid the 
blame of her failure on circumstances. If her 
mother were not so hard to please, or her brothers 
so troublesome, or something else were not just as 
it was, she should have done better. Even when 
she blamed herself, it was her carelessness, or her 
forgetfulness — not the wickedness of her heart, to 
which she ascribed all the evil. "How could I 
forget so soon?" but then she always flattered her- 
self that next time it should be so, or at least, that 
if it came to extremities, she could do more than 
she had yet done. Thus she went on to make for 
herself a robe of righteousness ; and though her 
work was destroyed as snon as finished, with un- 
wearied diligence, she patched it again and again, 
and vainly hoped, that with it she should be able 
to cover her moral deformity. 

This self-conceit, and fondness for self-justifica- 
tion, showed itself in all Maria did, as well as in 
her religious experience. 

One day, on examining some work which Maria 
had just finished, her mother found a needle stick- 
ing on it. 

" I have often requested you never to do this 
Maria," said she, showing the needle; "there is 
great danger of some person's being injured by it." 






THE FASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 17£ 

Maria was sure she had not left it there : she re- 
membered, perfectly well, putting it away 

M Who then could have put it there % I have not 
touched your work, and I believe your father and 
brothers are not in the habit of using needles." 

Still Maria was positive; and her mother, though 
displeased at her obstinacy, said no more, but ex- 
amined the work. 

" These seams are not sewed neatly, Maria," 
said she. 

" It is because the thread was so coarse." 

" Could you not have taken finer ?" 

" Mamma, I could not find any other." 

" Did you look in the proper place?" 

" Yes, mamma." 

Her mother opened the drawer, and presently 
held up the spool of cotton. 

" Well, mamma, I am sure I did not see it." 

" Besides, it is not all the fault of the thread ; the 
stitches are not taken properly." 

Maria's mouth was again opened to reply; but 
her father, who had been reading, looked up from 
his book, and said, quietly, 

M Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? 
There is more hope of a fool than of him." 

It hardly need be said that Maria was over- 
whelmed with confusion. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

11 By the deeds of the law shall no flesh living be justified." 

One day when Maria was in the self-compla- 
cent frame of mind which has been described, her 
father, who understood the state of things perfectly, 
directed his remarks accordingly. 

"Maria, do you understand the meaning of this 
verse, ' He that offendeth in one point, is guilty of 
all?'" 

" No, papa ; I have often wondered how it could 
be true." 

" It does not, of course, mean literally, that if a 
man breaks one of these commandments, he, in 
doing so, breaks all the others ; for instance, that a 
man who steals is a murderer ; but that he who 
breaks one command is as really a transgressor, it 
is as impossible for him to be saved by the laiv, as 
if he had broken them all. Do you understand me?" 

" No, papa — or, at least, I cannot see how it is 
true." 

" The law of God is in fact one, though divided 
into several distinct precepts ; they all breathe the 
same spirit, and require the same moral character. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 177 

Therefore if a man breaks any one of them, he sins 
against the spirit of the whole. A thief gives as 
clear a proof that he does not love his neighbor as 
himself, as a murderer does. Besides, a man who 
breaks one command, shows a contempt of God's 
authority which would lead him to disobey the 
others, if he had temptation and opportunity. This 
is plain, is it not ?" 

" Yes, papa." 

" But leaving this out of the question, it is as 
impossible that a man who has committed but one 
sin in his life should be saved by his good works, 
as if he had committed a million." 

Maria looked surprised. 

" Why, my dear, just think what are the condi- 
tions of the law. ' He that doeth these things shall 
live by them, but the soul that sinneth' — not the 
soul that sinneth a thousand or a hundred times — 
'but the soul that sinneth, it shall die.' Suppose 
I had promised you a reward, on condition that 
you would walk straight to the end of a line, 
without getting off once : would it avail any thing 
for you to say, ' I only got off from it once or 
twice, and I got right on again ?' Or suppose a 
man were condemned for murder: would it excuse 
him to plead that he was not a thief?" 

" No, papa, I see it all now." 

" You see then, my dear, how vain and foolish 



178 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

it is to expect to be saved by your own righteous* 
ness. Even if you should begin now to be per- 
fectly holy, and never commit another sin, how are 
all those you have already committed to be washed 
out?" 

" But if I should be perfectly holy all the rest 
of my life, would it not be unjust to punish me for- 
ever for my past sins ?" 

" Unjust? you forget that the law of God re- 
quires perfect obedience always ; it requires you 
to love God with all your heart, and your fellow- 
creatures as yourself, every moment of your life. 
If you do this a part of the time, you do your duty 
for that time only, and how is this to excuse you 
from doing it the rest of the time ? If you could 
love God with more than all your heart for the rest 
of your life, then, to be sure, you might make 
atonement for past deficiencies ; but this, I presume, 
you do not expect to do." 

It would be impossible to describe the emotions 
of grief, despondency, and anger, which filled 
Maria's heart as she listened to these remarks, and 
became convinced that all her goodness for the last 
few days was thrown away; that it did not give 
her the least claim to the favor of God, and that in 
spite of all she could do, it would be just for him 
lo punish her for ever. The law of God seemed 
to her unreasonably strict, and impossible tobeob- 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 179 

served ; his character appeared hateful to her, arid 
since her goodness was of no use, she would not 
try to be good any longer. But then came the 
dreadful thought of eternal misery — of dwelling" 
with everlasting burnings ! With a i.eart full of 
enmity, hatred, and despair, she retired to bed. 

Another period of several months elapsed before 
the conversation in the next chapter occurred. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 

6 Yes ; man for man perchance may brave 
Toe horrors of the yawning grave j 
And friend for friend, or child for sire, 
tlniaunted or unmoved expire, 
From love— or piety— or pride ; 
But who can die as Jesus died?" 

" He stipulates indeed, but merely this, — 
That man will freely take an unbought bliss, 
Will trust him for a faithful, generous part, 
Nor set a price upon a willing heart," 

" Maria, have you a clear idea of the manner 
in which the death of Christ was an atonement for 
sin ? or, in other words, how his death rendered it 
just for God to pardon sin ?" 

" No, papa ; it has often seemed strange to me, 
how the death of an innocent person could atone 
for the sins of the guilty." 

" Well, I will try to make it plain to you. You 
perceive that God, as a holy being, must hate sin?" 

"Yes, papa." 

" As a sincere being, he must manifest this ha- 
tred r 

Maria replied, with hesitation, " Yes, papa " 

" If he did not, if he allowed his creatures to 
suppose that he approved it, or was indifferent to 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 181 

it, he would be insincere ; and not only insincere, 
but unjust. It was necessary, then, that God should 
not only feel, but manifest, his indignation against 
sin." 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, no longer hesitatingly. 

11 Well, now, the most obvious, and, at first view, 
the only way God had of manifesting his displea- 
sure when men transgressed, was by inflicting 
punishment immediately upon them. But if any 
other way could be found in which God's displea- 
sure could be as clearly displayed as it would 
have been in the destruction of the whole human 
race, they might still be saved. In other words, 
if any being could be found both able and willing 
to bear the wrath of God in our stead, and a being 
so great and glorious, that his bearing our punish- 
ment would be as clear an exhibition of God's 
hatred of sin as if we bore it ourselves — we might 
be allowed to escape. Is not this plain ?" 

" Yes, papa, perfectly." 

11 But, then, where was such a being to be found? 
One so glorious, so tenderly beloved of God, and 
yet so benevolent and compassionate ? Who could 
have foreseen that the only and well-beloved Son 
of the Father would be the sacrifice ? O, won- 
drous love ! too great to be imagined — almost to 
be believed !" 

16 



182 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

He seemed lost in rapturous contemplation. At 
length Maria ventured to ask : — 

" Did Christ suffer just as much as the whole 
world would have done, if they had perished V 1 

" That is not necessary to his making an atone- 
ment. If God would not spare the sinner when 
his own beloved Son stood in that sinner's place, it 
was sufficiently evident that he never would do so, 
without atonement. The justice of. God is as 
clearly exhibited in the sacrifice of Christ as his 
mercy." 

" I don't see, papa, on this ground, why repent- 
ance is necessary. If Christ bore the sins of all 
men, why should they bear them again V 1 

"And I will ask you, Maria, why God should 
pardon, or how he can pardon, those who deny 
that they have sinned, and will not accept forgive- 
ness? But, in fact, repentance is necessary to 
pardon ; for before a man repents, the language of 
his heart is, * I have done nothing wrong, and, of 
course, I have no occasion for pardon ; offer par- 
don to those who are guilty.' The whole contro- 
versy between God and the sinner turns on this 
*>oint ; for all that God requires is that he should 
acknowledge himself guilty, and accept pardon for 
the sake of Christ. 

" And now, Maria, can you not see, or, rather, 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 183 

can you help seeing, the infinite wisdom and beauty 
of this plan of salvation'? Who would ever have 
imagined such a way of pardon % Who could have 
supposed that the infinite God would die for mor- 
tals? And when you see him thus bleeding and 
dying for you, how can you help falling down at 
his feet, and washing them with your tears ? 

11 1 want you to see," he resumed, after a short 
silence, "that repentance is not imposed as an ar- 
bitrary condition, that is, as one which God might 
or might not have connected with his offers of mer- 
cy ; it is necessary in the very nature of things. In 
fact, it can hardly be called a condition ; for if a man 
offered to confer a favor on another, he would not 
add, 'on condition that you will accept it;' that 
being implied of course. Repentance only implies 
the willingness to accept salvation as a free gift; 
and, therefore, God in fact offers it unconditionally. 
It is true, that if his offer is accepted, it will lead 
to a change both in the heart and life; but this is 
not a condition of salvation, only a proof of its be- 
ing secured." 

11 1 understand what you mean, papa," said Ma* 
ria; but she found that understanding and submit- 
ting were two different things. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

*' It is vain to serve God— and what profit shall we have if we keep hii 
ordinances V 

" I labor especially to convince them, that all the difficulties which oppose 
their salvation lie in their own hearts ; that Christ is willing to save them, but 
they are unwilling to be saved in his way, and are therefore without excuse." 

" Have wounds which only God can heal, 
Yet never ask his aid." 

" If they ask, ' What shall we do?' I never dare give them any other answer 
than that given by Christ and his apostles : ' Repent, and believe the gospel.' " 

" Papa," said Maria, "do you suppose a person 
who reads the Bible, and prays every day, is more 
likely to be converted than one who does not?" 

" The Bible, Maria, gives no encouragement to 
those who read and pray with an impenitent heart." 
" Then I don't see the use of praying at all." 
" Of praying insincerely, I suppose you mean. 
There is a great deal of use in praying from the 
heart, though there is none in praying without it." 
" Then, papa, I may as well give up at once." 
41 See how unreasonable you are, Maria. Be- 
cause heartless prayers are of no avail, you will 
not pray at all ; and you think hardly of God, be- 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 185 

cause he will not accept hypocritical and selfish 
services." 

" But if I cannot do any better, papa, then what 
must I do ?" 

" If you cannot do any better, why then there 
is no help for you. God has said that those who 
do not repent, must perish ; and if you cannot 
repent, why, you must suffer the consequences.' , 

Maria, at these dreadful words, burst into a flood 
of tears, and sobbed for some time, without being 
able to speak. Her heart rose against the de- 
mands of God ; she wanted to say, " Then he is 
unjust to require what cannot be done;" but her 
father had answered this objection so often, that 
she was afraid to advance it again. At last, her 
father said, 

" Do you not see, Maria, that it is to accuse God 
of injustice, to say that you cannot repent? He has 
commanded you to do it, and threatened to punish 
you if you do not ; of course, to say that you can- 
not do what he requires, is to say that he is cruel 
and unjust." 

"But, papa, if I really feel that I cannot" — 

* Really feel that you cannot ? What do you 
mean by that, Maria ? You do not pretend to deny 
that you have the power of feeling sorry, and of 
feeling sorry for your own conduct." 

" No, papa, I do not deny that I have the power 
16* 



186 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

of being sorry in other cases, but not in this one. 
I have tried, and tried, and I cannot" 

" There are so many absurdities in your speech, 
that I hardly know where to begin to answer them. 
Do you suppose that Christians have more facul- 
ties than other men ?" 

" No, papa." 

" Then, of course, you have all which are ne- 
cessary for obeying God. He does not wish you 
to exert any new powers, but to use in a different 
manner those which you have. For instance ; he 
has given you the power of loving in general, and 
he requires you to love him ; he has given you the 
power of being sorry, and he requires you to be 
sorry for sin, and so on. It is as absurd to talk of 
person's having power to be sorry in one case, and 
not in another, as it would be to say that a person 
is blind to some objects, or deaf to some sounds. 
To give a person power to be sorry, or to love, in 
a particular case, would be equivalent to giving 
him a disposition to exert the powers he already 
has. Is not this plain ?" 

" Yes, papa. But," resumed she, after a pause, 
"my difficulty still comes back. You know, papa, 
there is no arguing against consciousness ; and so 
long as I am conscious of being unable, I cannot 
be convinced that I am able." 

" If we could not be deceived in our conscious 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 187 

ness, this would be unanswerable. What you are 
conscious of, is that very strong unwillingness, 
which, while it exists, amounts to inability ; that 
species of inability which is sometimes called 
moral, in distinction from natural inability. To 
make the case plainer, suppose that somebody 
should try to persuade you to set fire to the house, 
and burn us all up ; would you not feel the im- 
possibility of doing it full as strongly as if you 
had not the necessary physical power?" 

u Yes, indeed, papa." 

" It would be impossible that an affectionate 
mother should kill her child, or an affectionate 
wife murder her husband, while the affection con- 
tinued ; as impossible as if it could not be done. 
Their dispositions might be changed, and then the 
impossibility would be removed. In this sense, I 
acknowledge that it is impossible for you to repent ; 
or, which amounts to the same thing, it is abso- 
lutely certain that you never will repent of your- 
self." 

Maria sighed deeply. 

44 You see that it depends on the sovereign grace 
of God, whether you are ever saved or not. Dr. 
Doddridge has remarked, that a person who dili- 
gently uses the means of grace, is more likely to 
be favored with the renewing influences of the 
spirit of God than ooe who neglects them ; not be- 



188 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

cause there is any merit in such services, but be- 
cause the fact that a person is inclined to offer 
them, shows that the Holy Spirit is already striving 
with them. This remark, however, is merely the 
result of his observation, and has no warrant in 
the Bible" 

" Is there nothing that I can do then ?" said 
Maria, in a tone of despair. 

" Nothing — if you will not do what God re- 
quires. My dear daughter, I would willingly help 
you if I could, but I dare not pretend to be more mer- 
ciful than God. I must leave you where his word 
leaves you, shut up between these truths. You 
never can be saved without repentance; you can 
repent, if you choose ; but it is absolutely certain 
that you never will choose, unless God makes you." 

Maria's distress was terrible. She went up stairs 
and threw herself on the floor. 

11 O, I wish I had never been born ! I wish I 
had never been born !" burst from her lips. 

If she had merely been told that she could repent 
if she pleased, although she would have denied it 
in words, there would have been a secret belief in 
her heart that, if she could repent now, she could at 
any other time ; and this would have lessened her 
anxiety. But to feel that she was to blame for not 
repenting, and yet never would repent of herself — 
in short, that she was in the rnnds of the Almighty, 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 189 

to be dealt with according to his sovereign will and 
pleasure — this was distressing indeed. 

While these inward conflicts lasted, Maria could 
take no pleasure in any thing ; she felt like an out- 
cast, often envying the beasts and birds their hap- 
piness, or wishing that she had never existed. At 
other times she was generally obliging and good- 
tempered, having overcome some of her childish 
faults ; but when under the influence of these feel- 
ings, she appeared unkind and morose. One re- 
flection, which occasioned her great distress, was, 
that her guilt was aggravated by the very privi- 
leges which she enjoyed. This had been often 
urged upon as an additional motive to escape such 
terrible condemnation; but now that escape seemed 
hopeless, she wxmld gladly have surrendered her 
privileges, that her responsibilities too might be les- 
sened. She would have determined upon a volun- 
tary self-seclusion from the house and word of God, 
but that she was aware this would not diminish 
her guilt ; and next to the wish that she had never 
been born, w T as this, that she had been born a 
heathen. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

" R,ebel because 'tis easy to obey, 

And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way." 

"If the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldst thou not have 
done it? How much rather then when he saith to thee, ' Wash, and be 
cleansed.* " 

After this, Maria's distress continued for sev- 
eral weeks with scarcely any abatement. She felt 
as if the wrath of God pursued her wherever she 
went, and gave her no rest, day nor night. When 
she lay down at night, this reflection would pre- 
sent itself to her mind with irresistible force: " God 
knows whether I shall ever be saved or not; he 
looks forward through the ages of eternity, and 
perhaps he sees that I shall spend them in hell." 
This perhaps seemed to her to have all the force 
of certainty, and her anguish could hardly have 
been deeper had she been assured of perdition. 
She often feared, too, that the Holy Spirit had for- 
saken her, and that she was given up to final im- 
penitence and hardness of heart. She knew that 
those persons have most reason to fear this awful 
doom, who have oftenest resisted and grieved this 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 191 

blessed visiter — who, then, in so much danger as 
she? 

One day, while she was in this frame of mind, 
she stood behind her father's chair, combing his 
head — for in this way he sometimes obtained slight 
relief, under his attacks of nervous headache. 

Maria stood silent for some time, with an ex- 
pression of hopeless misery on her countenance, 
and the tears rolling down her cheeks. 

" Papa," said she, at last, " I do not see why 
Christians are ever unhappy. O, it seems to me 
that if I were only sure of being saved, I should be 
perfectly happy all the rest of my life." 

Her father sighed. " Christians ought to be a 
great deal happier than they are," said he, " but 
then they have many things to diminish their 
happiness. In the first place, few Christians feel 
'sure,' all the time, of being saved; they are fre- 
quently troubled with doubts and anxieties on this 
point. Then they are obliged to maintain a con- 
stant watch against their remaining sins; to strug- 
gle, and fight, and pray, and often — too often, to 
mourn that they have not watched. Besides, the 
situation of their impenitent friends, and the sin 
and misery they see around them, are constant oc- 
casions of grief. Still, it ought to make them 
happy, to reflect that all these things ar« ; *? the 






192 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

hands of such a God — a God who is their Father 
and Friend." 

Maria's tears flowed faster. " He is not my 
Father and Friend," thought she. 

" My dear child," said her father, tenderly, «' if 
you really wish to be a Christian, what is there to 
hinder you ? You cannot doubt that God is will- 
ing — if not, why has he given his only Son to die 
for you? why does he allow you the Bible and the 
Sabbath? why is he sending his Spirit, even now, 
to draw you, if possible, to himself?" 

" I know it, papa," said Maria, as soon as her 
tears would allow her to speak; "but then what 
can be the reason that I am not a Christian. I am 
sure if I were required to go on a pilgrimage, or 
to submit to any of the penances which the Hin- 
doos inflict on themselves, I would not hesitate a 
moment — no, not a moment." 

" I believe it, Maria. I believe you would do 
any thing to purchase heaven, but I believe, too, 
that at this moment you are refusing to accept it 
as a free gift, for the sake of Christ. TJiis is the 
great stumbling-block in the way of every sinner's 
conversion. At first, he would fain owe his sal- 
vation entirely to his own merits ; and when, by 
repeated trials, he finds that this cannot be done, he 
still tries to patch up a miserable righteousness of 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 193 

his own, which shall almost entitle him to heaven, 
and then the merits of Christ may do the rest." 

He paused, but as Maria did not reply, he went 
on. 

i; My dear child, why will you not give up ev- 
ery thing of this sort, leave off all dependance on 
any fancied goodness of your own, and trust sim- 
ply in Christ? ' Only acknowledge thine iniqui- 
ty",' God says: and what easier terms could he 
propose? Can you not fall down at his feet, and 
say, 'Lord, I am a poor, miserable sinner; I do 
not deserve any favor, but I pray thee to pardon 
me for Christ s sake.' Only say this, sincerely 
and the work is done — is it not easy?" 

" Yes, papa, it seems so — 0, if I could." 

" Maria, you remind me of an incident which 
occurred when you were a little girl, and which I 
suppose you have forgotten. You were put in the 
closet for refusing to say, Please, mother; and 
when you thought you were to be left there all 
night, you cried out very dolefully, ' O, I wish I 
could say, Please, mother.' And now what was 
the difficulty there — the want of power or of will?" 

" Of will, papa." 

" And yet you thought you wanted to say it, and 
could not. I shall leave vou to make the applica- 
tion" 

17 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

" It is the soul's prerogative, its fate, 
To shape the outward to its own estate ; 
If right itself, then all around is well — 
If wrong, it makes of all without a hell." 

" Thyself, in all things, see reflected back, 
And all through time, and down eternity, 
"Where'er thou goest, that face shall look on thee." 

"Maria," said her father, the next day, "I 
want to talk with you a little more on the subject 
we began last night. You think that nothing 
more is wanting to make you happy, than to be 
assured of heaven." 

" Yes, papa, I am sure that this would make me 
perfectly happy." 

" Mind, I do not say if you were prepared for 
heaven, but if you were sure of going there with 
vour present character and feelings." 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, with some hesitation. 

" Let us see then what would make you happy 
there. The happiness of heaven consists, princi- 
pally, in a view of the perfections of God, and the 
disposition and ability to praise him, without hin- 
derance or imperfection. Now tell me candidly, if 
such employments would make you happy ?" 

Maria was silent. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 195 

" Is there any thing pleasant to you in the idea 
of spending eternity in the presence of an infinitely 
just and holy God, with no other employment than 
praising and serving him?" 

Maria was obliged to confess that the thought 
was an unpleasant one. 

" You desire heaven, then, not for any happi- 
ness you expect to find there, but because it is the 
only way of escaping eternal misery — in other 
words, it looks desirable to you, not for its own 
sake, but only as compared with the w r orld of de- 
spair. Is it so?" 

" I believe it is something like that, papa, though 
I never thought of it before. I never thought much 
about what would constitute the happiness of hea- 
ven ; only in general, I thought it must be a happy 
place because it is always described so ; and at any 
rate, I thought if I did not go there I must perish." 

" But you see now that the happiness of heaven 
would not be happiness to you ; therefore, all you 
could expect there, even on your own admission, 
would be freedom from positive suffering. But is 
this enough to constitute ' perfect happiness V If 
so, you ought to be perfectly happy now." 

" No, papa, it would not be perfect happiness, to 
bs sure ; only if I had expected or feared to be 
miserable for ever, the joy of escaping would seem 
perfect happiness, in comparison." 



196 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Very well ; I understand you ; but now let us see 
what ground you would have to expect even freedom 
from suffering. In what does the misery of hell con- 
sist ? Not principally, by any means, in bodily suf- 
fering, but in remorse of conscience — in the uncon- 
trolled dominion of evil passions — in short, in that 
moral pollution and debasement, which is justly and 
emphatically called the death of the soul. Now 
these things are not dependant on place, nor on any 
outward circumstances, but on the character." 

11 Yes, papa," replied Maria, " and I see what 
you are coming to." 

" What then ?" 

" That w T ith my present character it would not 
make much difference as to my happiness whether 
I went to heaven or not." 

" Yes, Maria, that is what I was coming to ; 
sin and misery are inseparably connected, and 
while you are sinful you never can be happy. 
Have you not already had some experience of this?" 

" Yes, papa." 

" You have felt remorse ?" 

11 Yes, papa, often" — and as Maria gave this an- 
swer, she remembered an instance in which she 
had committed a fault which no one knew but 
herself. She remembered the sickness of heart — 
the faint, oppressed, burdened feeling which she 
carried about with her for three days, during 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 197 

wfiich she was constantly dreading detection — 
how she dared not meet her parents' eyes, nor 
join in the plays of her brothers and sisters, and 
how every word of kindness went like a dagger 
to her heart — these things she remembered, and 
she said, " Yes, papa, you need not say any thing 
to prove that remorse makes people unhappy, for 
I am convinced of it enough now." 

"And remember, too, that remorse in the other 
world will be infinitely more dreadful than any 
you have ever experienced. But let us take an- 
other illustration. The tendency of pride is to 
make us desire to be noticed and applauded ; in 
short, to be above others. When we are com- 
mended or exalted in any way, pride is gratified, 
and we feel self-complacent and happy ; when we 
are neglected or censured, pride is mortified, and 
we are miserable. Has not this been the source 
of some of your unhappy feelings, of which you 
did not know the cause?" 

" Yes, papa, 1 think that is a good deal the 
reason w T hy I do not like to be reproved, but not 
all ; and when I am in company, it makes me un- 
happy if people do not take any notice of me — in- 
deed, papa, I believe that if I had no pride I should 
hardly ever be unhappy." 

" Well, how do you suppose a proud person would 
feel if he were obliged to live constantly in the so- 
17* 



198 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

ciety of a person whom he disliked, but who was 
his superior, and to whom universal homage was 
rendered, while there was no possibility of gaining 
distinction or admiration for himself?" 

" I should think he would be perfectly misera- 
ble, papa." 

" How, then, could such a one be happy m 
heaven? He would be continually wishing for 
the first place; he would pine after honor and ap- 
plause ; and to see God alone — a being whom he 
disliked — exalted and reverenced, would fill him 
with envy and mortification. The songs of an- 
gels would be to him more discordant than the 
shrieks of the lost; and 'Worthy the Lamb' would 
grate on his ear more harshly than the sounds of 
wo from the prison of despair. 

" I might take any of the other passions of the 
unrenewed heart, as examples to illustrate the 
same truth, but it is unnecessary. I think it must 
be evident even to you, that the indulgence of 
envy, hatred, revenge, malice, or any other sinful 
passion, is entirely incompatible with happiness. 
You see, then, my dear child, that it is your own 
character which w T ill ultimately render you happy 
or miserable. With your present character, it is not 
impious to say that God himself cannot render you 
happy ; and, on the other hand, with such a charac- 
ter as he approves, you cannot be otherwise." 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

11 The heart is deceitful above all things." 

When Maria, on another occasion, repeated the 
often made remark, " It seems as if I was willing," 
her father replied, " It seems as if you were willing ; 
that is, your heart tells you so, but you know the 
Bible says, ' He that trusteth in his own heart is a 
fool.'" 

" Must I never, then, believe what my heart tells 
me?" asked Maria, seeking, as usual, for some 
ground of cavilling. 

" Perhaps that would be the safest way; at any 
rate, where the heart is an interested party, never 
trust it, — it will betray you." 

"■Papa, I wish you would tell me all the ways 
in which my heart may deceive me, and then I 
could guard against it." 

" If I should try to tell you all, Maria, I am 
afraid I should never have done : but I will tell you 
a few of the ways in which the heart proves that it 
is * deceitful above all things.' 

" The first of these is, by telling sinners that 
there is no cause for alarm, and that they may con- 



200 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

tinue to live in impenitence without danger. This 
is a universal delusion. But when the Spirit of 
God comes and awakens the sinner's conscience, 
sets his sins in order before him, and shows him 
the strictness of the law, this delusion is dissipated. 
The sinner sees that it is not safe to live and die 
without repentance, and he cannot help feeling 
alarmed that he is yet without it. His heart then 
tells him that it is not so very difficult a work to 
repent — that he can easily do it at any time, and 
that at present, he had better enjoy himself. Some- 
times the sinner rests here, and drives away his 
fears; but if he cannot succeed in doing this, he 
begins to 'try to repent/ as he calls it, that is, he 
prays, reads the Bible, &c. However, he soon finds 
that this is not repentance, and will not lead to it; 
and furthermore, that he cannot repent by any 
such efforts. 

" What does his heart do now? why, it turns right 
about and tells him that he can do nothing, that he 
must therefore sit still and wait God's time. But 
the heart knows that if the sinner really believed he 
could do nothing to help himself, he would not be 
at all disposed to sit still and wait God's time; if 
therefore tries to make him believe, — at the same 
time that it is telling him he is not to blame 
because he cannot repent — that if he should exert 
himself to the utmost, if he were on his death bed. 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 201 

for instance, he could repent ; and, strange to say, 
the poor deluded man believes these contiadictory 
stories. Has not your heart told you so a thou- 
sand times, Maria ? n 

11 Yes, papa." 

M Well, the sinner's heart tells him that if he 
prays, and reads the Bible, and is moral, and ' does 
as well as he can,' God will hear him and grant 
him salvation. So the sinner does all these things, 
but his prayers are not heard, and his heart tells 
him, that God is very unjust not to answer him. 

14 But the sinner has been told that he must not 
place any dependance upon his prayers, or imagine 
that there is any goodness in them ; it is only on 
those who are conscious of deserving nothing that 
God bestows favors. So he goes and makes a long 
confession, and tells God that he merits nothing 
but punishment, while his heart tells him all the 
time, ■ How very humble and penitent you are, 
and how meritorious it is in you to make such con- 
fessions ; God will certainly hear you now.' But 
God still refuses to hear, and the sinner's heart 
tells him that he has a right to be angry at the 
refusal. 

" Perhaps, however, his conscience tells him that 
it is not being humble to be proud of one's humili- 
ty, and that it is rather inconsistent to ask a thing as 
an undeserved favor and then be angry that it is not 






202 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

granted. Then he goes to God and makes another 
confession, and confesses too the pride of his former 
confession ; and while he is doing it, his heart 
whispers to him, ' How much self-knowledge you 
must have, to have found out so soon that it was 
pride; almost any body else would have been 
deceived.' Have you known any thing of this 
Maria?" 

" O yes, papa, it seems as if you had described 
all my thoughts and feelings." 

" Well now, which will you believe; this wicked, 
treacherous, deceitful heart, which will lead you 
to perdition — or the God of truth and love, who is 
ready to guide you to peace and happiness ever- 
lasting P 

" O, I shall never trust my heart again, papa, as 
long as I live." 

" What should you say, my dear," replied her 
father, smiling, "if I should tell you that this 
remark affords a new illustration of the deceitfulness 
of your heart ?" 

" How, papa ?" said Maria, in surprise. 

" Nothing but a deceitful and self-confident heart 
could suggest, that a single warning would secure 
you from all its treachery." 

" But surely, papa, I could not be such a fool as 
to be deceived now, when I know exactly the very 
ways in which my heart will try to deceive me." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 203 

" Maria, if you live a thousand years, and be- 
come so experienced in the ways of the heart that 
you can trace all its windings, and lay open its 
most secret recesses to others — never hope that 
you are beyond the reach of its treacheries. The 
wisest and holiest man that ever lived will find, to 
the day of his death, new evidence that he has 
never fully understood the depths of its depravity. 
No, my dear child, your only security, your only 
refuge, is in Christ. He can save you from the 
treachery of your heart, the allurements of the 
world, and the snares of the tempter; and lie alone 
can do it" 
( 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

" And, therefore, it is no wonder, if men seem naturally more devoutly af- 
fected toward such an imaginary god, than to the true, real God, clothed 
with his own attributes : since it is nothing but an image of themselves, 
which, Narcissus like, they fall in love with." 

About this time the wishes of Maria's father 
were gratified, and his prayers answered, by wit 
nessing among his people indications of the pre- 
sence of the Spirit of God — indications which soon 
ripened into an extensive revival. The joy and 
gratitude with which this blessing was received, 
were proportioned to the intensity with which he 
had desired, and the earnestness with which he 
had labored and prayed for it. Instead of plead- 
ing with sinners, whose hearts only seemed to 
harden under his expostulations, it was now his 
joyful duty to guide trembling sinners to the Sa- 
vior, to direct the weary and heavy-laden where 
they might find rest, and to listen to the rapturous 
praises of those who now first perceived Christ to 
be the chief among ten thousand. As to Maria, 
her occasional distress for herself did not prevent 
her from sympathizing in her father's joy. 

One day a deacon of the church came in, and 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 205 

mentioned several new instances of hopeful con- 
version, attended with circumstances of peculiar 
interest. Maria eager as usual, to be the first to 
carry the good news to her father, flew up to his 
study, and, breathless with haste, told her story. 
Her father went down to learn the particulars 
more at length. After ths deacon was gone, Ma- 
ria seemed to have something to say which she 
could not very well express ; but after a good deal 
of hesitation she began : — 

" Papa, there is something I don't quite under- 
stand." 

" Well, my dear." 

" I don't see why I should be so glad to have 
people converted, if I — I am not a Christian. I 
don't mean that I think I am one, but I don't see 
why" — Here she stopped. * 

" I know what you mean, my dear. It is not at 
all uncommon for the children of pious parents to 
have such feelings. You, for instance, know that 
it is my first desire to see my people converted, 
and that nothing gives me so much joy, as to have 
them choose Christ for their friend. Now, it is 
very natural that your love for me should lead 
you to sympathize in my joy. You are glad 
when you hear of instances of conversion, just as 
you would be glad of any other mercy I should 
receive. Do you see what I mean ?" 
18 






i 



206 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, papa," said Maria, not quite glad that the 
explanation was so satisfactory. " But, papa, I 
have other feelings sometimes" — 

" Well, dear, go on — what sort of feelings?" 

," I don't know — but, papa, I can tell you when 
I have them, and then perhaps you will know what 
I mean. Don't you remember when you went 
out in our little garden one evening, with George 
and me, and you talked to us about the flowers, 
and about the stars ; it was a beautiful evening, 
and the air was so soft and balmy, and I remem- 
ber you said, papa, how happy a person must be, 
that could look up to heaven and say, ' My Father 
made them all.' And then I had a strange feel- 
ing that made the tears come into my eyes, and it 
seemed as if I loved God, and loved to look up to 
heaven, and call him my Father. And another 
time, papa, when I was at G., and was so home- 
sick, and I looked out of the window, and every 
thing was beautiful, but it only made me cry the 
more — I had the same sort of feelings then." 

" Those feelings, my dear child, are such as 
any person may have in such circumstances. 
You know I have explained to you what is meant 
by emotions of beauty and sublimity. Now, when 
these emotions are strongly excited — when a man 
looks, for instance, on a lofty precipice, or a foam- 
ing cataract, or a beautiful landscape, his whole 






THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 207 

soul is moved and softened; and, if his thoughts at 
that moment are directed to God, he thinks of him 
as the Author of all that beauty and sublimity 
which makes him so happy, and his heart swells 
with emotions which he mistakes for gratitude 
and love. This has been felt a thousand times by 
men of taste and cultivated minds ; but if God be 
presented to them as a Being of spotless purity, 
and unswerving justice, who will by no means 
clear the guilty, they are disgusted, and are ready 
to say, ' Depart from us, for w r e desire not the 
knowledge of thy ways.' " 

As Maria continued silent, her father resumed. 
" There are other feelings of the unregenerate 
heart, which are often mistaken for religion. 
There is a certain class of desires after excellence, 
which come under this head. A man, we will 
suppose, reads a book in which some noble and 
excellent trait of character is held up to view; its 
beauty and loveliness are painted in vivid colors, 
and it is illustrated by examples; his mind is kin- 
dled by the representation, and he wishes that he 
were such a character. Suppose, for instance, that 
sincerity is the virtue thus held up to view 7 ; and, as 
the man reads, he contrasts the picture with the 
meanness, the dissimulation, the petty artifices, the 
hypocrisy, which he has witnessed, and perhaps 
has sometimes practised* he turns away with loath- 



208 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

ing from himself and from the world, and longs 
for truth and purity. 

" Have you ever felt thus, Maria?" 

" O yes, papa, exactly ; when I have been read- 
ing Miss Edgeworth's works, O, how I have want- 
ed to be like the persons she describes." 

" And did you think these were such desires for 
holiness as God requires?" 

" I don't know, papa; I suppose not; and yet I 
don't see what the difference is." 

V One difference is, that such desires as I have 
described have no reference to God. The man 
does not wish to be sincere because God loves 
truth, and abhors falsehood; but his understanding 
and conscience tell him that truth is a lovely and 
excellent quality. Besides, such desires do not 
lead to humble, persevering effort; to admire and 
to wish for a virtue, and to go no further, is not 
enough. The man practises again the same dis- 
simulation which he abhorred, and his admiration 
of truth is forgotten. 

" There is one other thing too : if it was from 
any love of holiness that such desires proceeded, 
the man would desire equally the other constituents 
of holiness ; he would desire to be humble, meek, 
self-denying, poor in spirit ; but these virtues he 
despises." 

"Well, papa, I am sure I never should have 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 209 

thought there was any thing wrong in desiring 
excellence." 

" Not positively wrong, in such a case as I have 
supposed ; only they need to be sanctified by a 
higher principle. But desires for excellence may 
be positively sinful." 

" How, papa?" 

" When a person wishes to possess a virtue that 
he may be admired by others, or may admire him- 
self. In the first case, vanity is his motive, and 
he would be satisfied with appearing to possess 
the virtue ; in the second, pride or self-compla- 
cency stimulates him. I should not be surprised 
if you should find, on examination, that both these 
motives have had something to do with your de- 
sires after excellence." 

" Papa, if there are so many ways of being de- 
ceived, I don't see how any person can be sure he 
has right feelings." 

" Not by examining his feelings only, but by 
observing his conduct. The best proof is, constant 
watchfulness against sin, daily humble communion 
with God, and a gradual transformation into his 
likeness. These cannot be counterfeited." 

This conversation gave Maria some new views 
of herself, but such as were not at all agreeable to 
her, and she did not encourage them. 
18* 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

" "Wilt thou condemn me that thou mayest be righteous V 

" And he that will be cheated to the last, 
Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. 

" Papa," said Maria, looking* up from the Bi- 
ble which she was reading, " I should not think the 
Jews would have dared to talk so as they did." 

" How do you mean, Maria?" 

" Why, papa, all those places in Malachi ; when 
God told them he loved them, they said, ' Wherein 
hast thou loved us V and, ' Wherein have we rob- 
bed thee ?' and, * It is vain for us to serve God.' " 

" It is astonishing, to be sure, that they were not 
both afraid and ashamed to utter such impious 
words ; but I should not think you would be sur 
prised at it, Maria." 

" Why not, papa?" 

" Because it seems to me that I have heard you 
say things quite as bad." 

" O, papa!" 

" At the very least, you have said them by your 
conduct, and moreover, whenever you excuse your- 
self, you condemn God." 



THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 211 

" I do not see how, papa." 

" Well, let us take some of your excuses, and 
see. One of them is, that temptation is so strong, 
it is impossible to resist it ; that if you were in 
some other situation, you might find it easy to obey 
the law of God, but in your present circumstances 
it is impossible. Now, who ordered your circum- 
stances and temptations? Who commands you in 
all circumstances, and in spite of all temptations, to 
love and obey him? You accuse God of placing 
you in such a situation as renders obedience im- 
possible, and then of threatening to punish you 
for disobedience. I should like to know when the 
Jews said any thing worse than this ?" 

" But, papa, as long as I don't really say so" — 

" But, my dear, you do really say so. If I 
should reprove and punish you for any fault, and 
you should persist in saying, ' I was not to blame, 
I couldn't help it;' you would as really accuse 
me of cruelty and injustice, as if you said it in so 
many words. Another of your excuses is, that 
you did not make your own heart. Now, what is 
the meaning of this excuse, if fully expressed ? 
Why, it is this: 'What an unfortunate creature I 
am ! God has given me a depraved heart, and 
then blames me for having it; he has implanted 
in me propensities which he blames me for indulg- 
ing, and after having made it impossible that I 



212 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

should love him, he threatens me with eternal 
misery if I do not.' Of course, on this ground, 
all the sin in the universe must be ascribed to 
God, and it is his fault that all mankind are not 
virtuous and happy." 

" Papa, I am sure I should never have thought 
of saying such horrible things." 

11 No, I dare say not, in words ; but to God, who 
looks at the heart, and sees all these feelings there, 
it is the same. Besides, you cannot deny that you 
have brought forward all the excuses I have men- 
tioned, and many others. When you complain of 
God for not answering your prayers, and assert 
that ' it is of no use to pray or to do any thing,' 
what is this but saying, ' It is vain to serve God V " 

Maria could not deny this ; she therefore re- 
mained silent. 

" The fact is, Maria," resumed her father, "that 
God and the sinner cannot both be in the right. 
They are directly at variance, and one or the other 
must be wrong-. If God be in the wrong- then 
he is infinitely wrong, for an infinite being must 
be infinite in all his attributes. He is infinitely 
unjust, cruel, and tyrannical ; a being deserving 
no love, reverence, or obedience. You must judge 
whether this is to be believed or thought for a 
moment." 

" Papa, I would 



THE PASTORS DAUGHTER. 213 

"Then you must give up saying that you are 
right. You must acknowledge that it is your 
fault, and not God's, that you do not love him, and 
will be your fault, and not his, if you perish." 

Maria sighed ; she was unwilling to take the 
olame upon herself, and she was afraid to throw it 
upon God. She tried to think if there was not 
some alternative, but could find none. At last 
she said, 

M Papa, perhaps we might have been able to 
obey the law of God once, but have lost the ability 
on account of Adam's sin." 

" That will not help the case at all. For if you 
have lost the ability to obey God, even though 
you lost it by your own fault, yet if it is lost, God 
has no right to command you to use it. God ab- 
solutely commands you now to repent: and if you 
cannot do it. the command is a tyrannical and un- 
just one, whether you ever had the ability to obey 
it or not, No, Maria, there is no alternative. 
Either you are wrong, or God is so; which will 
you say?" 

Maria did not reply. 

"Did you ever think," said her father, "that 
you may sometime or other become an infidel ?" 

" I an infidel ! O, papa," said she, with a mix- 
ture of grief and reproach, "what can you mean?" 

" Just what I say, my dear. I think it extremely 



214 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

probable that if you should not be converted before 
many years, you will be an infidel. And I will 
tell you why. A man can never be happy so long 
as his conscience and his conduct are at variance. 
While he believes that endless misery awaits those 
who reject the gospel, and yet continues to reject 
it, he cannot be at ease. If, therefore, he is deter- 
mined not to alter his conduct, he tries to get rid 
of his belief; to persuade himself that he is not in 
so much danger as he supposed ; that all men will 
be saved, or that there is no God. And this en- 
deavor, if persevered in, will always be successful. 
When God sees that a man is bent on destruction, 
and wishes to be deceived, he 'gives him up to 
strong delusions to believe a lie;' and the wretched 
victim goes on blindfold to ruin. And the more 
pungent is a person's distress, the more deep his 
convictions of sin and danger, the more liable he 
is thus to deceive himself; for the more eager he 
will be to get rid of his distress." 

This conversation alarmed Maria exceedingly. 
She was almost distracted, at times, with doubts 
and apprehensions, and her mind was, indeed, 
" like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest." But, 
let it be remembered, all this was her own fault 
She would not submit. 



CHAPTER XL. 

1 Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, ' Why hast thou made 
melhuo?' " 

11 Papa," said Maria, " if the hearts of all men 
are alike, and one no more deserves to be saved 
than another, why does God choose to convert 
some and not others?" 

11 For no reason that we know of, Maria, but his 
own good pleasure. We are certain that it is not 
on account of any merit in those who are saved ; 
and that is all we know about it." 

" Then how can it be just to make such a dif- 
ference, where all deserve to be treated alike ?" 

" I will answer you in the words of the house- 
holder in the parable : Is it not lawful for me to 
do ichat I will with mine own ? God treats none 
worse than they deserve, and if he chooses to treat 
any better, he certainly has a right to do so." 

Maria still looked dissatisfied : Her father went 
on. " Creation gives the Creator an absolute sove- 
reignty over his creatures. * Hath not the potter 
power over the clay, to make one vessel to honor 
and another to dishonor V It would have been con- 
sistent with justice if God had left us all to perish, in 
consequence of the sin of Adam ; much more, then, 



216 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

is it just to leave those to perish now, who reject the 
offered merits of a Savior, trample his blood under 
their feet, and do despite to the Spirit of grace." 

" Yes, papa, it would be just if he treated us all 
so, but if he saves some" — 

" That does not alter the case at all, in regard to 
the others. Was the householder unjust to the 
laborers that were first hired, when he gave them 
all he had promised, though the others, who had 
worked a shorter time, received the same ? w 

" No, papa." 

" The case is just this. God has provided sal- 
vation for all ; he offers it to all, but all reject it. 
He invites and entreats them to be saved ; but they 
will not. Then, by the secret, constraining influ 
ence of his spirit, he obliges some to accept his of- 
fers, and saves them, as it were, against their will, 
or rather, makes them willing in the day of his 
power. But is he therefore unjust to those whom 
he leaves to follow their own chosen way ?" 

If Maria had answered as her conscience and 
understanding dictated, she would have said no, 
at once ; but her heart rebelled. She longed to es- 
cape from the hands of Jehovah ; she looked on 
every side, but could see no outlet. 

As she was silent, her father resumed. 

"But, why should you object to others being 
saved, Maria, even if you should not be? Do you 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGTHER. 217 

not see, that only a feeling of envy, similar to that 
of the laborers in the parable, could prompt such 
wishes ? Are you not content with refusing the 
offers of mercy yourself, but do you wish all the 
world to refuse them too ? What sort of disposi- 
tion is that which could be consoled under suffer- 
ing, by the sufferings of others?" 

Maria burst into tears. tk I see papa hates and 
despises me," thought she, " and I do not wonder, 
if he supposed I had such feelings." This idea 
put the finishing touch to her misery. " I am in- 
deed forsaken of God and man," was the feeling 
with which she rose to go to her own room, there 
to give vent to her sorrows in tears and groans ; 
but her father detained her. 

" My dear child," said he, "I know that you do not 
love to hear these things ; but if they are true, ought 
you not to hear them ? If you are thus in the hands 
of God, is it not better you should know it now, when 
by timely submission you can make him your friend, 
than to learn it for the first time when he is become 
your irreconcilable enemy ? I must tell you, then, my 
child my duty to God, and to your soul, requires me 
to tell you, that the power of a giant over an infant, 
is as nothing compared with the entire and absolute 
control which God has over you. Escape you can- 
not — submit you must. Will you submit volu ntarily 
and be happy, or by constraint and be miserable?" 
19 



CHAPTER XLI. 

" A wounded spirit who can bear ?" 

Maria had not asked her father any questions, 
nor made any remarks on the usual subject, for 
several days. She had the air of a person who 
resigns himself to an inevitable evil, and is prepared 
for the worst that can happen. She expected that 
her father would notice this difference, and question 
her as to its cause ; and she had what she consider- 
ed a triumphant answer ready for him ; but when 
day after day passed, and he took no notice of her, 
but seemed as indifferent as herself, her assumed 
philosophy gave way. If he had asked her, she 
had intended to tell him that if she were elected 
to be saved, she would be so, at all events ; and if 
she w r ere not, all her efforts would not avail, and 
therefore she might as well be quiet. 

But when he did not ask her, she began to find 
that such a consideration was not at all suited to 
keep her quiet. The more she reflected, the 
greater was the tumult of her mind ; she was not 
onlv^^ry with her Maker because she was in his 
power, but she even felt displeased because her 






THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 219 

father did not talk with her as usual. She half de- 
termined never to introduce the subject again, as 
if — poor, foolish child that she was — any one would 
suffer by such conduct but herself. She little 
knew that her father was aware of all that passed 
in her mind ; and that his silence, as well as his 
conversation, were alike intended to benefit her. 

The tumult and anguish of her mind, however, 
increased to such a degree, that she could no longer 
maintain her resolution. " O, how I wish that I 
had never been born!" was the exclamation that 
broke from her lips, after one of these struggles. 

" That is a very foolish, as well as a very sinful 
wish," said her father, gravely. " You ought rather, 
to be grateful for the blessing of existence." 

" I am sure I should not think it a blessing," 
said Maria. "We are created without our own 
choice ; and then we don't know but we shall be 
eternally miserable, and have no way of helping 
ourselves." 

"Is that true, Maria?" 

" I don't see but it is, papa. If God has decreed 
that I shall be saved, I shall be ; and if not, I shall 
perish ; I cannot alter his decrees." 

" You are now sitting down," said her father. 
" Have you not power to get up and walk across 
the room?" 

" Yes, papa." 



220 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Well, now, choose which you will do." 

" I choose to sit still, papa." 

" Well, now, you may say, if you please, that God 
had decreed you should sit still ; but this did not 
interfere at all with your freedom ; you did just as 
you pleased." 

Maria considered for a moment. " I don't know, 
papa; T always get puzzled when I try to under- 
stand this. The other day I was thinking about it, 
and it occurred to me that I had power, for instance, 
to move my arm, or not to move it, just as I chose ; 
and then I moved it several times, and felt conscious 
that I did it freely ; but as soon as I moved it, I be- 
gan to think that it was not free, for it was fated 
that I should move it." 

" No wonder that this subject puzzles you, 
Maria, for it has puzzled the wisest philosophers. 
The difficulty is, that you try to understand what 
cannot be understood — how the freedom of man is 
consistent with the sovereignty and decrees of God. 
It is enough for us to know that they are both 
facts." 

" How can they be both facts, and yet be incon- 
sistent?" 

" 1 did not say that they are inconsistent, but 
hat we cannot see how they are consistent." 

" And must we believe things which we do not 
understand, papa ?" 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 221 

" I fancy I could mention a hundred things which 
you believe without understanding," said her 
father, smiling ; " but one will be sufficient. Do you 
understand how the volition in your mind to move 
your arm was conveyed to the muscles of the arm? 
in other words, how could your arm know that 
your mind willed it to move, and why should this 
willing make it move ?" 

" I am sure I cannot tell, papa." 

11 Here is one thing, then, which you and every 
body else believe without understanding, But this 
is not all ; we believe things w T hich cannot be prov- 
ed, by any argument or reasoning whatever." 

" O, papa, you cannot mean so ?" 

" Yes I do ; don't you believe in your existence V } 

" Yes, papa, certainly." 

" Well, now, let me near you prove it. Suppose 
a person should undertake to deny that you exist, 
how would you convince him of it?" 

" O, papa, nobody would be so foolish as to deny 
that, when he saw me right before his eyes." 

" That w r ould be nothing to the purpose, if it 
were true; but it is not. There have been philo- 
sophers who have denied the existence of matter, 
and refused to admit the evidence of the senses. 
You must, therefore, leave all the senses out of the 
question, and prove your point by reasoning alone." 

Maria thought a little while. " I am sure 1 do 
19* 



222 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

not know how, papa," said she ; " and yet it is very 
strange ; an hour ago, I should have thought it the 
easiest thing in the world to prove." 

" Those things which we believe most firmly 
are not those which admit of the clearest proof; 
on the contrary, many of them cannot be proved, 
and we believe them because we cannot help it; 
that is, because God has so constituted our minds 
that we perceive their truth intuitively." 

" What other facts besides our own existence do 
we believe in this way, papa ?" 

" I will give you that for a subject of thought 
till to-morrow, Maria. See if you can find any 
truth which you did not learn by experience, and 
which is not the result of reasoning, but which 
you have known ever since you can remember any 
thing about yourself." 



CHAPTER XLII. 

" Come lowly, he will help thee." 

" Papa," Maria began the next evening, " I can- 
not possibly think of any more truths of the kind 
you described." 

" I did not expect you would be able to," replied 
her father; " for though they are perfectly familiar 
to you in their application, or in the form of par- 
ticular assertions, they have not occurred to you in 
an abstract form. But let me ask you a question. 
Do you believe that you are the same person now 
that you were some months or years ago? In 
other words, when I speak to you now and call 
you Maria, do I speak to the same Maria that 1 did 
last year, or to another person?" 

Maria laughed. " What an odd question, papa; 
you do not believe that the Irish fairies changed 
me like that story" — 

44 Do not go off to a story about Irish fairies 
now, my dear. Answer me yes or no." 

u Yes, papa." 

14 Well, now prove it." 



224 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Without the evidences of the senses, papa ?" 

" Certainly; besides, they would be of no use in 
this case. My eyes tell me that you have the same 
form and appearance you had yesterday, but not by 
any means the same you had when you were an 
infant ; and I know there is not a particle of matter 
in your body now that was in it a year ago. If, 
therefore, you are the same, the sameness must 
exist in your mind, and this I cannot see." 

"Well, papa, I declare I cannot prove this, ary 
more than the other. I will never think that I 
know any thing again." 

" Why, my dear, you know this, and are per- 
fectly fcure of it. Remember, you have found that 
knowing a thing does not necessarily imply the 
possibility of proving it. You know that you 
exist by consciousness, and this is a kind of evi- 
dence which neither requires nor admits a»y other 
to confirm it." 

" Papa, I don't see what all this has to do with 
the subject we were talking of yesterday." 

" You will see directly. What I want to show 
you is, that you have the same evidence that you 
are a free agent, which you have of your existence; 
that is, you are conscious of it. When you lift your 
arm, you are conscious that you do it voluntarily." 

"Yes, papa. But then," resumed she, after a 
pause, " if you admit the evidence of conscious- 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 225 

ness in one case, why not in all ? I am just as con- 
scious of having tried to love God, as I am that, 
in other cases, I am free to act as I please ; and yet 
you do not receive this as proof that I have tried." 
" Yes, my dear, I do admit, and always have 
done, that you have tried to do what you suppose 
is necessary to your salvation, and because it is ne- 
cessary ; and there is the fault. What is it that 
God requires? That he should be loved for him- 
self, and because he is lovely, not because our hap- 
piness requires that we should love him; for if this 
be the motive, it is not him that we love, but our- 
selves. Do you understand this ?" 

" Not quite, papa." ^ 

* Suppose, for a moment, that love were depen- 
dant on volition ; in other words, that you could 
love by an act of your will ; and suppose that, see- 
ing it was necessary for your happiness that you 
should love God, you should will to love him, and 
should begin to do so — would that be love in reality, 
or would it be selfishness disguised? Love is the 
very opposite of selfishness; and to talk of loving, 
because our happiness requires it, is a contradic* 
tion in terms, and an impossibility in point of fact. 
A person might pretend to love another from this 
motive, or he might love as he loves money, or any 
thing else that contributes to his happiness; but as 
to exercising any complacency, it could not be." 



226 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" Yes, papa, I see what you mean now," said 
Maria, in a sorrowful tone. 

" You see, then, that you never could be con- 
scious of trying to feel love in this sense, because 
it never comes by trying. The only way in which 
it can be excited, is by presenting a lovely object; 
and then, unless the affections are perverted, love 
will spontaneously flow out." 

" Then, papa, after all, I do not see what I am 
to do. It is very plain that love to God does not 
spring up in my heart spontaneously, and if it can- 
not be excited by effort, how can I obtain it?" 

" Take care, in the first place, not to feel that 
because love cannot be awakened by direct effort, 
you are therefore not to blame for not exercising 
it. Recollect that it ought to be the spontaneous 
growth of your heart ; and that it is not, only proves 
your depravity. If you can be brought to feel and 
acknowledge this, one obstacle in the way of your 
loving God will be removed. You are unwilling 
to see that he is lovely, because, if he is, you are 
unlovely. But only give up the pride of your heart, 
be willing to see that you are in the wrong, and 
you will be prepared to acknowledge that God is 
in the right, and to love him." 

" But even this, papa, I cannot do." 

" No, not of yourself, and I was going on to tell 
you how you might do it. God says, * Let him 






THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 227 

(that is, the sinner) take hold of my strength, that 
he may make peace icith me. 1 You will not be 
punished for not repenting by your own strength, 
but for rejecting the offered aid of the Holy Spirit. 
Go and fall down at the feet of the Savior, and 
tell him that you know he deserves your love and 
gratitude, that it is the fault of your, own sinful 
heart that you do not love him ; yet acknowledge 
that you do not, and that you never shall of your- 
self, and beg him to send his Spirit to aid you — do 
this sincerely, I can promise that you shall not 
come away unblessed, for the Savior has said, ' Him 
that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' " 

Maria sobbed out a request that her father would 
pray with her: and as he uttered in his prayer the 
sentiments he had just recommended her to adopt, 
her heart seemed almost ready to join ; yet still it 
hung back. 

The next morning, as Maria was watering her 
flowers, her father stood near, apparently observing 
her operations. She seemed to bestow particular 
attention on a rose-bush, from one stalk of which 
grew a half-opened bud. 

11 Why do you do that, Maria?" asked her father, 
as she placed the bush in the sun. 

"Because, papa," she replied, surprised at the 
question, M it will open faster in the sun, and 1 want 
it to bloom before to-morrow, which is my birth- 
day, you know." 



228 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

" How foolishly you reason ; if it is decreed that 
the bud shall open, it will do so, of course, without 
your interference ; and if it is not, no effort of yours 
will avail to make it." 

At the former part of this speech, Maria looked 
at her father in amazement ; at its conclusion she 
looked down, confused at finding her own weapons 
turned against her, and not knowing what reply 
to make. 

" The truth is, my dear," said her father, " that 
if your reasoning were to be carried out into the 
common affairs of life, it would destroy all activity 
at once, and men would sit down, and fold their 
hands, and wait for the ravens to come and feed 
them, and for houses to grow up over their heads. 
Don't you see that this would be the result ?" 

" Yes, papa." 

" The husbandman does not neglect to sow his 
seed because he will have a harvest if God wills; 
he knows that if God has decreed him a harvest, 
he has also decreed that he shall use the means to 
obtain it. Therefore, if you sit still and do nothing, 
it will be evidence that God has not elected you to 
be saved, for he never decrees an end without the 
means." 

" I don't know what is the reason, papa, but when 
I think of this, it seems to take away all hope 
from me." 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 229 

"But why should you think of it at all, my 
dear ? You have nothing to do with God's de- 
crees ; your concern is with his commands ; and he 
commands you now to repent." 

This was the result of all her conversations, and 
yet it was just the result that Maria did not like. 

20 



CONCLUSION, 

* Thus, afraid to trust his grace, 

Long time did I rebel ; 
Till, despairing of my case, 

Down at his feet I fell : 
Then my stubborn heart he broke, 

And subdued me to his sway, 
By a simple word he spoke — 

4 Thy sins are done away.' " 

" But Heaven had gifts for sinful men, 
I little knew or thought of then ; 
And on my night of fear and sin, 
A ray of peace at last broke in— 
A blessed, bright, benignant ray, 
The herald of eternal day." 

Maria was, at this time, about thirteen years 
old. Her father preached one Sabbath on the 
words of Elijah to the Israelites: "How long 
halt ye between two opinions? If the Lord be 
God, follow him ; but if Baal, then follow him." 
In concluding his sermon, he urged all his hearers 
to come to some determination immediately, as to 
their conduct in reference to eternity, and to com- 
mit their resolution to writing. If they were firmly 
resolved to make the salvation of their souls their 
first and chief concern, let this determination be 
recorded as a witness against them if they should 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 231 

fail to observe it; and if, on the contrary, the lan- 
guage of their hearts was, " Not now; a little de- 
lay, a few more months or years of worldly plea- 
sure," let this resolution be distinctly expressed in 
writing, that none might encourage himself with 
the thought that he was on the side of religion be- 
cause he had not expressly resolved against it. 

Maria was much affected and wept abundantly 
during the sermon, and when she returned, she 
took a piece of paper and wrote on it, " I do 
solemnly resolve that I will make it my first ob- 
ject to secure the salvation of my soul, and that I 
will give myself no rest till I have reason to be- 
lieve it is secured. Maria." 

In pursuance of this resolution, Maria imme- 
diately commenced a course of religious duties, to 
which she strictly adhered. She prayed night 
and morning, with much apparent fervor, and 
many tears ; read the Bible and other religious 
books ; prayed with her little brothers, and her 
sister, six years old ; and, in short, performed all 
the external duties of religion. The watchful care 
of her parents had before corrected many of the 
faults of her childhood ; others were naturally 
abandoned as she grew older, and others still she 
was able to subdue under the influence of the 
powerful motives which were now operating upon 
her mind. Let it be understood, that I speak not 
20* 



232 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

of the feelings of the heart, but of their outward 
manifestation in the conduct. Her deportment 
then was generally correct; she found much 
pleasure in religious duties, and began to hope 
that her heart was changed. She commenced a 
diary, in which she recorded the state of her 
mind on different occasions, and which contained 
many professions of humility, and of earnest de- 
sires to be free from sin. Her parents could not 
but hope, though with trembling, that their prayers 
were answered, and that their dear Maria was now 
indeed made a subject of Divine grace. 

This state of things continued for several months, 
during which Maria's self-complacency was con- 
tinually increasing, though she made the most 
humble confessions in her prayers, and repeatedly 
renounced all claim to any favor from God. How- 
ever, at the end of this time, her interest began 
gradually to decline; devotional duties became 
wearisome; were imperceptibly shortened, and 
finally omitted ; she began to attend a day school, 
where her attention was engrossed by her studies 
and companions, and her resolutions and hopes 
were forgotten. Still, they had not been wholly 
useless. Maria gained by it new experience of 
the deceitfulness of her heart, of its inconceivable 
depravity, of her utter inability to do any thing 
right of herself, and of the folly of most of her ex- 



THE FACTOR'S DAUGHTER. 233 

cuses. She became more distrustful of herself, 
and, in conversation with her father, did not, as 
usual, attempt self-justification, but listened in 
silence when he told her that God only was right, 
and she wholly wrong 

The next summer, Maria was presented by a 
friend with Doddridge's Rise and Progress, beau 
tifully bound. How much influence this latter ch> 
cumstance exerted in inducing her to read it, can- 
not be determined ; but she began to read it atten- 
tively, though upon the Sabbath only, as her time 
during the week was occupied with school. To 
one unacquainted with the inconsistency of the hu- 
man heart, it will appear almost incredible that, as 
regularly as the Sabbath returned, Maria should 
be full of the most pungent distress, and, during the 
week, as careless as if she had no soul. Yet so it 
was. The Sabbath was spent in weeping, praying, 
and forming resolutions, and on Monday morning 
she rose, remembered that she had lessons to prepare 
for school, learned them, went to school, and thus 
spent the day and week, until the next Sabbath re- 
newed her distress. Her father almost began to de- 
spair of ever seeing her a Christian, and to fear that 
all her convictions would only harden her heart. 

The following winter, a new change took place 
m her feelings. Her distress gave place to a con- 
viction that she never should be saved — a con vie- 
21 



234 THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 

tion which was attended with a sort of quiet, al- 
most sullen despair. She supposed that the Spirit 
of God had forsaken her, but the thought did not 
occasion distress; she listened in silence, and with- 
out, as usual, shedding tears, to all that was said 
to her, acknowledged its truth, at least, by her si- 
lence, but still seemed to be without feeling. She 
saw that her past services did not entitle her to 
the favor of God ; that they had been prompted by 
self-love, and that she should never be able, in any 
way, to entitle herself to his favor. She wondered 
that she had never seen this before ; but it excited 
no tumult in her mind, no enmity against God, no 
desires of self-justification. 

By degrees, the sort of sullenness which had at 
first accompanied the conviction that she was lost, 
gave place to a feeling not less desponding, but 
more tender. As Brainard remarks, (whose ac- 
count of his feelings, previous to his conversion, 
she had read with intense interest, on account of 
its remarkable coincidence with her own feelings,) 
she was "not distressed, but disconsolate, as if no- 
thing on earth could make her happy." 

Her father had established, many years before, 
a meeting for thoso who were sufficiently interest- 
ed in religious subjects to wish for conversation 
in regard to them ; but this meeting Maria had 
never attended. However, one afternoon, at th© 



THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER. 235 

period of which we have been speaking, as her 
father was going to this meeting, he proposed to 
Maria to accompany him. She was surprised at 
the proposal, and hardly knew what to do, but 
there was no time for deliberation ; her father was 
waiting, and she accompanied him. She took her 
seat in a retired corner, and, with the same feeling 
of hopelessness which had so long been her com- 
panion, listened to the remarks which were made, 
as if they were intended for others, not for herself, 

The love of Christ was the theme of her father's 
remarks ; it was one on which he always delight- 
ed to expatiate, but, on that afternoon, he was more 
than usually eloquent. His soul seemed on fire 
with his subject ; one illustration after another was 
poured forth, and each one added to the vividness 
of the impression. 

Maria forgot herself, and her despondency ; she 
thought only of the Savior who was thus presented 
to her ; admiration, love, gratitude, and penitence, 
filled her heart ; and when her father said, that, if 
it were necessary to man's salvation, Christ would 
undergo all his sufferings again, a flood of tears 
burst from her eyes ; she hid her face in her hands, 
and was ready to exclaim, " O, it is too much — too 
much ! — such love to such a wretch !" Her father 
who had directed his remarks with special refer* 
ence to her case, saw their effect. 



236 THE PA STOR ? S daughter. 

As soon as he spoke to her, on going from the 
house, her tears burst forth again, and she could 
only tell him that she was thinking of the love of 
Christ. This subject occupied her thoughts con 
tinually. Instead of complaining that she could 
not " make her heart love God," she wondered 
how she could help loving him. Instead of think- 
ing herself unfortunate in not being able to obey 
the commands of God, she perceived that it was 
entirely her own fault that she had not done so 
sooner. 

Maria could not but be aware of this change in 
her feelings ; she could not but see that they were 
different at present from any she had ever experi- 
enced before ; and she began, though at first with 
trembling, to cherish the delightful hope that her 
sins were pardoned. This hope was gradually 
strengthened; and, three months afterward, she 
publicly acknowledged the Lord to be her God, 
and Jesus Christ her Savior. 



THE END. 



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